America
by Starcat000
Summary: Fury didn't like unknowns. He didn't like mysteries. He definitely didn't like unpredictability. Therefore, nothing was more guaranteed to ruin his day than a situation involving Alfred F. Jones. Otherwise know as the human embodiment of the United States of America.
1. For America

**For America**

 _Summery_ : Fury contemplates America

Grammar, spelling… yada yada

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fury didn't like unknowns. He didn't like mysteries. He definitely didn't like unpredictability.

Therefore, nothing was more guaranteed to ruin his day than a situation involving Alfred F. Jones. Otherwise know as the human embodiment of the United States of America or the Personification of America.

Obnoxious and overly friendly the man seemed to find even the most pressing situations irritatingly hilarious, fumbling blindly into the most random of occurrences. Always grinning and with a pedant for sprouting ridiculous ideas Fury often wondered how the United States ended up with the idiot as their Personification. Sure Americans weren't the brightest bunch but good god if Jones didn't try his patience every time they met. And anyone who said that Jones wasn't the most irritating man to walk the earth needed a good punch in the face.

Anything to do with the concept of a Country Personification was, in itself, enough to give him a headache on the best of days. They were a security nightmare. Mostly, this was due to the fact that Personifications seamed to have some of the most inconstant abilities he had ever witnessed in a metahuman and, coming from him, that was saying something. Personifications could move at great speeds, but not all the time. They could teleport…sometimes. Superhuman strength? Yeah, sure, why not? But only when the circumstances were right. He had seen the Jones toss cars around and survive hundred foot drops yet be taken out by a simple punch to the face. Top scientists gave him squat in way of explanation aside from evidence that he was 100% human, which was bullshit.

This did not even begin to cover the occasional bouts of freakish insightfulness or the fact that Jones seamed to know an unpredictable amount about fucking everything. As someone who prided himself on his ability to keep his secrets and the secrets of the country this uncanny knowledge of America's darkest doings had put Jones firmly on the 'national hazard' list. The thought that all someone needed to do to seriously compromise national security was kidnap this kid off the streets never failed to keep him awake at night.

Perpetually optimistic, a gross misunderstanding about his precious position and prone to disappearing for extended periods of time, were only some Jones' more aggravating habits and did nothing to alleviate his stress. In other words, Jones was a walking security risk, and it was SHIELD's job to keep tabs on the man when he was not bumbling around in DC.

His only consolation was that other governments also had these glaring weaknesses and, if his intel. was correct, they had just as much trouble dealing with and securing them as he did. Having set surveillance on several Personifications of interest he had come to several conclusions.

Firstly that, like Jones, they were difficult to keep track of without doing anything obvert. They also seamed to do whatever the hell they wanted regardless of what their handlers decided. Some were more stable and well behaved than others and it was not unusual to see them involved in different aspects of their governments and countries. But never overly involved, so it was difficult to pinpoint any particular agenda. Lastly and most importantly, they were all dangerously unpredictable, making any attempt at exploitation unadvisable.

As was tradition it was the United States government that primarily dealt with Jones. They had a department dedicated to the job, which he considered woefully underprepared to take on the task. He had lodged several protests and amendments, which had all been shot down. It was 'traditional,' they had reiterated, so obviously common sense was brushed aside. On one hand he did not have to deal with the obnoxious embodiment of America anymore than he had too, on the other hand he was surprised that there were not catastrophic emergencies on a weekly basis.

Seeing Jones at his desk, in his very secure office, aboard the Helicarrier, when he had no right being there, almost had him shooting the man. I few choice swear words were directed at whoever hated him. How the fuck did that stupid government department manage to misplace Jones all the way out here? For gods sake did he have to do everything in this country himself. Luckily, he did not end up accidently shooting the embodiment of America.

Jones swung back and forth on his chair not appearing to notices his presence. He flicked a pen in the air and twirled it between his figures. The disorderly state of his desk probably meant the man had been there a while.

"Dude!" Jones yelled excitedly, dropping the pen upon noticing Fury stalk through the door, "Finally, I've been waiting here for ages."

"I thought I had the wrong room and, oh boy, would that have been embarrassing, because I've been sitting here for two hours, hahahahah."

"Jones. How the hell did you get into this office," he interrupted, stomping forward to yank the man out off his seat, relocating him to the front of the desk.

Alfred F. Jones just laughed his loud annoying laugh, letting himself be pulled up. Some people said his laugh was infectious. He disagreed.

"Well, you see, funny story, I was in DC with Mark and then I totally got this urge to go for a drive," Jones, having launched into his recount, propped himself up against his desk, disrupting a stack of files. Fury scowled.

"Mark's a total hard ass, he's getting transferred soon so he's been a bit antsy, but he's nice so I wanted him to come too. You know everyone needs to relaxed,"

"Jones. Shut up and tell me how you got in here," he ordered. This was serious, he needed to know if there were a glaring security flaw he had somehow missed.

"OK, jeash, I was getting to that. I dunto how I got here."

Fury could almost feel his eyebrow twitching, "You don't know?"

"Yeah. Just sort of arrived here," Jones shrugged, examining the stack of files he had pushed over, picking up the top folder.

Fury leaned forward and slammed the file back on the table.

"Jones," he waited until he had the others undivided attention. Honestly, it was like working with a child sometimes. What did the people of America do to deserve this…

"This is serious,"

"I'll say," Jones nodded in agreement.

"There has got to be something big coming for me to end up all the way out here,"

Jones frowned, "Where are we again? Somewhere in the Pacific? You know, as much as the bigwigs harp on about it, the sea belongs to no one. I have no real power here. Yet here I am."

And there it was.

Fury noted the change in Jones' tone, the slight shifting of shoulders, and the minuscule changes in posture that only someone trained in deception would be able see. And suddenly the rambling kid before him was something much more dangerous. He straightened subconsciously in response.

He liked to think that this more threatening person was the 'real' America if not for the fact that Jones was just as sincere no matter what he was doing. The loud idiot, the soldier and whatever else, were all genuine, none of them being an act. He had seen this odd personality spitting among the other Personifications as well. And it was exactly this sort of unpredictability that made them the threats they were.

"But you don't know what this 'something big' is, or when it's going to happen," he said slowly, pushing aside his irritation in favour of professionalism. He had seen Jones accurately predict big events before. He had also seen him inaccurately predict events.

Jones frowned slightly before letting himself loosen up again, "Dude, you like totally need to get that team of super heroes together because we're going to need them. And it would also be totally awesome,"

Unfortunately, all of Jones' warnings were annoyingly vague.

"I'm going to need something better than 'totally awesome' to activate the Avengers Initiative."

Jones just shrugged, folding his hands behind his head, "Sorry man. You know these things are, like, really hard to predict."

Fury grimaced internally. The council already disliked Jones, almost as much as Jones disliked them, so it would be hard for him to act of this warning.

"And you're sure this is something important," Jones was fickle in that sometimes what he considered important to America did not quite line up with what Fury considered important.

"Whatever it is it's gonna' change things," Jones paused, running a hand through his blond hair. Fury took note of the advice, adding it to his never-ending list of concerns. It was something to look into later.

For now he put Jones' sudden appearance down to Personification strangeness. Spontaneous teleporting… he had seen Personifications do it several times. Probably one of his least favorite abilities no matter how much Jones tried to explain it as 'completely situational.' He did not like leaving things unanswered but with these people there was little logic and trying to apply some sense to them was a losing battle if ever he saw one.

"So, dude, now that's out of the way. Can you give me the tour of this place? The helicarrier is, like, hella-awesome."

Fury fixed Jones with the deadest look he could manage before letting out a stream of air. He was getting too old for this shit. The other man continued to grin, looking at him expectantly. Sure… why the fuck not. It would allow him to keep an eye on Jones and prevent him interacting with people not cleared to know about this particular national secret… and stop him from breaking anything.

While he waited for a Quinjet to be prepped to take Jones back to the mainland he guided the hyperactive man towards the command deck. All the people there at least had a high enough clearance so if they happened to pick up of Jones' inhumanness it wouldn't be a compete headache.

People in the hall stopped to salute him. Jones just passionately waved at them with that insane amount of energy he always seemed to radiate. Several agents gave him odd looks as if trying to remember who he was. It was a common reaction when first coming into contact with Jones. Most people described the experience as meeting someone they knew but had not seen in a long time. Jones' less that subtle presence was simply noted as nothing out of the ordinary. It was probably for this reason, and this reason alone, that Jones and the rest of the Personifications had remained a secret for so long. Fury eyed some of the newer recruits who returned Jones' greetings without so much as a suspicious glance.

Unless Jones himself specifically explained the situation it was unlikely that people would believe or even consider his position as the United States of America. Of course, this odd perception filter was not full proof and some people did figure it out on their own. He had after all. But it was at least a good first line of defense.

"Hey Maria," Jones all but yelled upon entering the command deck.

Agent Hill, in her defense, maintained a straight face as Jones came bounding up to her, grasping her hand. She did twitch slightly.

"Alfred…nice to see you to," She smiled lightly, shooting Fury a look of enquiry.

Fury waved the question aside. There would be time for debriefings later.

"Good job on that last missions. Snipers are totally annoying. There was this one time, when I was at this restaurant, and some people, like totally, tried to shoot me. Or was that Iggy…" Jones trailed off, "Hahahha, doesn't matter," he continued on, dragging Hill away from the consoles in order to engage other operators in his conversation.

Fury watched as Jones successfully distracted several people from their jobs. He would deal with breakdowns in professionalism later. Several agents did shoot Jones confused looks, glancing a Fury for instruction. Good, at least some people picked up on the man's strangeness. He just signed that Jones was a non-threat, enjoying the sight of people, other then himself, coming face to face with the wall that was Jones' never ending enthusiasm for all things and persons American.

For now Fury pulled out his phone dialing the number, which would connect him to the Internal Liaison Bureau.

The Internal Liaison Bureau mostly dealt with liaising between Jones and the government. They gave him his cover stories, kept him from getting into scandals and hid his existence from the rest of America.

They had been around almost since the signing of the constitution and there was a rumor that Lincoln himself had set up the first task force, though there was no proof. Since the official forming of America they had had the task of keeping the existence of personifications a secret.

"Hello, this is the Internal Liaison Bureau, direct line," said a professional, abet young voice, on the other side.

"I have someone who belongs to you," he said banally, watching Jones give someone an enthusiastic thump of the back. Honestly, he had never liked the department. He thought they were incompetent and near sighted with no regard for the greater safety of America.

"I'm sorry. Who is this?"

"FBI, " He decided to go with one of his aliases, the less these people knew about SHIELD the better, "Have you misplaced a certain Alfred F. Jones recently."

There was a pregnant pause, "Ahhh, please hold."

There was the sound of fumbling as the phone was presumably put down. Then the sound of yelling. This is why he disliked the department.

A gruff voice shouted, "What! He has who! Get out of my way." The sound of boots, "Give me that phone."

"This is Mark Blunt, who is this,"

"Jackson Earthen, investigator, FBI."

"How did you get this number,"

"Mr. Jones was kind enough to provide it." It was true, Jones had been the one to originally provide him with the number several years ago.

"I would like to speak with Jones. Put him on immediately."

Fury allowed his brow to crease ever so slightly in disapproval. He waved Jones over and was not surprise when he answered the with a, "Yo Mark. What's up?"

Furry did not hear Blunt's response but it was longwinded and had Jones rolling his eyes by the end of it.

"I'm in the Pacific!" Jones eventually replied to an unheard question, adding an unneeded amount of enthusiasm to the answer. Fury scowled at Jones' liberal dispensation of information.

He heard the next sentence due to it being shouted, "What! Of all the….How the hell are you in the Pacific!"

"I'm on a boat," Jones laughed. He then gave Fury a conspiratory wink. It was comments like these that made Fury think that there was some method to Jones' idiotness. The end goal being to annoy as many officials as possible.

There was the sound of spluttering across the line.

"Put the FBI agent back on!"

"He, like, wants to talk to you," Jones thrust the phone at him.

"I'm am sorry for any problems he caused. I have no idea how he got onto your ship," a more tied sounding Blunt responded when the phone was handed back to him.

Several minuets of negotiating later and Fury agreed to have Jones awaiting one of Blunt's teams on the mainland. Moderately satisfied, Fury scanned the deck for Jones, spotting him a corner animatedly describing something to several people all on whom were laughing.

"Bye guys!" Jones waved as Fury corralled him out the door and towards the flight deck.

Jones strolled down the hall, folding his hands behind his head and humming something, which sounded suspiciously like the national anthem.

"Max's really nice," It took Fury several seconds to connect the name to Max Neilson's file. Furry examined Jones, where was this going?

"You know he has a girlfriend in Prague that he's really worried about…says she's been getting threatening notes."

Fury raised a brow. Threatening notes were not really one of SHIELD's main concerns. However, situations like this could lead to blackmail and Neilson was one of the Helicarrier's top engineers. Of course, it was impossible to keep track of all of SHIELD agents' social lives but random checks and interviews were designed to rout out this sort of thing. Either Jones thought this would turn into a serious situation, in which case something needed to be done, or he just wanted to help Neilson. It would be just like Jones to set the full might of SHIELD on some vanilla everyday stalker.

"I'll see what I can do," It was better to be safe than sorry… even if this was Jones just wanting to help someone. The response was met with a wide grin.

Jones, he had observed, cared a great deal for the American people and when he said that he meant all the American people. Every. Single. One. This was one of the only reasons why he was glad SHIELD did not have direct responsibility for Jones. Fury worked towards a bigger picture and, while Jones was uncannily adept at working for a larger goal, he was easily sidetracked. And reining-in someone as unpredictable and enthusiastic as Jones would be extremely hard.

After Jones' third attempt at engaging hallway personal in conversation he ended up grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging him the rest of the to the flight deck. He did not need Jones uncovering any more bleeding hearts or other such oddities. He had a habit of convincing people to spew their guts and tell him their deepest worries. Another reason he disliked personifications.

Jones complained most of the way about how this was, 'totally the worse tour he had ever had.' Where was Jones' serious side when you wanted it?

Finally, after a lot of fussing, he had the man on the ramp of a Quinjet.

Jones, pausing on his way up the ramp, turned to him, grinning, "The others may not like you but I think you're doing a good job."

He assumed that by others Jones meant the other Personifications. Which wasn't too surprising. As much as he cared about world security America had always been his primary concern.

"Jones…get on the jet," he sighed. Good god this day was dragging.

Jones saluted and it was odd because he could almost smell the heavy Seattle rain and feel the heat of white desert sand.

"Keep up the good work man,"

And dam it if the words didn't make him oddly proud of himself. Dam weird mental manipulation.

"Just stay the hell out of my carrier," he ordered in response, ignoring what may have been a growing fondness. He did not need Jones taking this visit as an invitation to pop over anytime he felt like it. The government had enough trouble keeping him from randomly appearing in the Oval office whenever. He did not need the same security problem.

Jones laughed, strolling onto the jet, taking a familiar echo of bustling Manhattan and thrum of the big city with him.

It was not until the jet was out of sight did Fury take the time to rub his eye tiredly. Human personifications of countries… it never got easier.

And that fucking laugh was still echoing in his head several hours later as he combed through reports, attempting to pinpoint something that could have caused Jones' visit.

After some consideration he decided to raise the alert level. Jones may be annoying and a lose canon most of the time but he was the Personification of America. His warnings were nothing to scoff at. Fury had avoided many an emergency by giving them at least some acknowledgement.

As an afterthought he quickly went over some of the programs he had active at the moment. There had been some odd fluctuations reported by the department dealing with the Tesseract. He frowned at the reports. He had dismissed it at first, the Tesseract was always doing something odd, but now…

He would send Hill over to check on things. Hopefully, this would be one of those times Jones' warnings didn't pan out.


	2. Your Biggest Fan!

**Your Biggest Fan!**

 _Summery_ : Steve Rogers meets an enthusiastic admirer

. . . . . .

Something was off. He could feel it in his gut. Something major was going to happen and he did not know when, where or from what direction it would come. Since Jones' unexpected and not all that welcome visit he had been on edge. The man always seemed to prelude a slough of problems.

It put him in a bad mood.

"Sir," the voice echoed over the intercom.

"You have a call on line four,"

"Who?"

Line four: reserved for important allies and/or persons. As Director of SHIELD he did not have people contacting him directly and risking important data. Thus, outside calls were rerouted and scrabbled. If this were Stark once again misusing his privilege then he would have the call redirected.

"Steve Rogers, sir,"

Fury frowned, waving at the agent to put the call through. He had not heard from Rogers since he disappeared to his New York apartment after his self-enforced isolation in a secluded SHIELD safe house. The man did not take his reawakening as well as Fury had hoped.

He had decided to give Rogers room to come to terms with his situation and adjust to modern society. He did not doubt that, when the time came to call on Rogers' assistance, he would help. Rogers' character was such that he would not remain uninvolved.

"What is Internal Liaisons?" Rogers said, blunt and to the point.

Furry grumbled internally.

There would be only one reason for Rogers to suddenly ask about, what seamed to the outsider, to be another obscure government department.

Jones.

That was twice in a week. It was like they weren't even trying to keep the man contained.

. . . . . .

Steve enjoyed jogging, especially in the early hours of the morning before daily commuters crowed the streets and paths. There was something relaxing about the chill of the early morning sun and the way it seamed to chase away the night's damp. Of course, later the streets would fill with people going about their business, heading to work- or whatever else people did these days- with an absent minded determinedness that seemed a tad off to Steve. He could not pinpoint exactly why.

Then again, he found many things odd and out of place now. People talked differently, they acted differently and, more unnervingly, they thought differently. He had never felt so estranged among so many. Like a smudge of dirt on a pain of glass, it was not enough to obscure but just enough to hinder the view. He was different and out of place but not noticeably so, making it doubly frustrating when he said something disagreeable, strange or insulting without even realizing it. Nothing remained familiar. Everything being just a little bit off.

"Yo, what's up?"

The overly loud question startled him out of his reprieve, causing his muscles to tense in apprehension. It took a concerted effort to remind himself that he was not in danger but in a busy city park. He slowed his run to something more natural and glanced to his left at the youth, probably in his early twenties, now running alongside him.

The strange man waited, looking at him expectantly.

"…running," all he could really respond to such and unexpected and overly familiar question. Perhaps he misheard the statement, people did speak differently from what he was use to.

The man nodded in agreement, pacing him as he circled the park.

"Nice morning!" the stranger said with an odd amount of enthusiasm, considering the overcast and rather dreary weather.

Steve blinked in confusion. Did he know this person? He slowed down to a walk, keeping alert for any hostile activity. Blond hair, blue eyes and oddly familiar the man reached his eyes height wise. Lean, muscled and possibly military, considering he paced Steve without breaking into a sweat.

"Yeah, defiantly an awesome morning, nice, peaceful and stuff. Probably good for clearing the head and other things, am I right?" the odd man said in agreement to his own previous statement, beginning conversation like they had known each other for years. He had not met many new people since he awoke and the list of people he had met remained woefully short. He would definitely remember meeting someone like this.

"My apologies, but have we met before?" He interrupted, hoping it wasn't rude. The standard for rude and not rude was one thing to have changed significantly during his nap.

"Oh right, hahaha, we haven't met yet," the man nodded without missing a beat.

"I'm Alfred, Alfred F. Jones. But you can call me Alfred or Al… or Fred I guess, if you really want too."

The now named Alfred appeared to seriously debate the merits of calling himself Fred. He also gave Steve what he might describe as watery, googly eyes.

He eyed the other wearily.

"Alfred then. I suppose it is nice to meet you Alfred," he would have extended an arm to offer a handshake but he was still unsure about Alfred's nature or purpose.

"So cool," Alfred inhaled under his breath. He seamed to be attempting to contain his excitement. Steve leaned back as Alfred leaned forward, stars gleaning in his eyes. In spite of this peculiarity the man seamed harmless.

Suddenly, Alfred stood right up in his personal space, gripping his right hand and shaking it with great vigour. The sudden movement put him on edge.

"This is super amazing, I can't believe it."

Any worries he had were unfounded as all Alfred did was grip his hand and grin, unleashing a slur of words that became lost in his excitement.

"I am, like, totally your biggest fan ever!"

"Errr," Steve shifted to the side to give himself more room. Maybe it was a modern thing. People seemed to have less of a concept of personal space these days.

"That stuff with the Howling Commandos, epic, and the whole super solider thing, and you kicked HYDRA's ass, that was awesome. I had, like, bragging rights up the wazoo for that one. You pretty much saved the world and Iggy's stinking ass."

He paused for breath.

"And 'Captain America' is only, like, the coolest name ever."

A lot of the statement was lost on him, modern accents being tricky to understand. He was getting better. It took him several seconds of stunned incomprehension before he picked up on one oddity in the man's dialogue.

Only people affiliated with SHIELD recognised him. Sure he got the occasional comment about looking like, 'someone familiar,' from random civilians but so far no one had actually connected him to the famous wartime figure 'Captain America.' Why would they? His activities with the Howling Commandos, while widely documented, were ancient history as far as most people were concerned and his death stood as a matter of public record, which had yet to change. The, 'trapped in ice,' explanation would not be the first conclusion drawn by people.

Surely this kid wasn't a SHIELD agent.

"Man, I can't believe it. This is the best day of my life," Alfred continued gushing his praises.

Steve, despite not remembering Alfred, felt they might be well acquainted. But Alfred just confirmed that they had not met yet. Now he was really curious. Who was this man? Someone important? Someone dangerous?

"So what are you doing after this? We should get breakfast."

He might as well accept the invitation. What had he been planning to do anyway? Finish is run, head to the jim, destroy some punching bags and return to his apartment. Also, he was curious and this was a good chance to find out more. He was unable to pinpoint why but his gut told him that Alfred was a good guy and he did not get this far by ignoring his gut.

"Ok. I suppose we could…"

"Great. Lets go! This is so awesome."

When he failed to match Alfred's enthusiasm the other took to pushing him along. Alfred was surprisingly strong for being quite a bit shorter than him.

"Come on my favourite restaurant is just around the corner,"

His favourite restaurant turned out to be MacDonald's, which he would not really define as a restaurant. Steve didn't mind fast food, it was definitely convenient, but nothing beat a hand-cooked steak or a homemade roast. The amount of food options in this time was mindboggling.

"I got this," Alfred grinned, giving him a thumbs up and heading for the counter.

With nothing better to do Steve sat himself down.

He crossed his arms, staring at Alfred's back while he pointed enthusiastically at items form the menu. He went through all the people he had seen since his arrival, which consisted of several doctors, Fury and maybe five or six SHEILD agents. Maybe Alfred worked higher on the SHIELD ladder and been privy to information about his revival so sort him out. But, no, that made little sense because he definitely recognised Alfred from somewhere.

Alfred returned with what looked like the entire menu.

"Take whatever," he said as he ripped open a burger with unneeded gusto.

"Are you SHIELD," Steve finally asked, hoping to put some of his speculation to bed. He was not a huge supporter of unknowns and secrets.

"Hmm?" Alfred swallowed a mouthful, "SHIELD? Hahahaha. Nick would, like, literally shit bricks if I joined,"

Nick? As in, Nick Furry, Nick? Was this person on first name terms with the director of shield? And…shit bricks? What? From what he had seen Fury was very serious about his job. He could not picture him interacting with someone like Alfred.

"Nar, I chill with the guys from Internal Liaisons," Alfred pointed a fry at him, "They're cool and all but Nick is, like, the coolest. You're so lucky, you get to kick ass, take names and not have to worry about stupid international politics."

Alfred made a face at the world politics. Well, he didn't know about that. He was pretty sure that not even Nick Fury got a free pass in politics. And, technically, he was not a part of SHIELD despite Fury's insistence.

"So you are government?"

"Hmm," Alfred nodded, his mouth full of burger, "Yeah, cool lot, those guys. A bit up-tight but hey I an't gonna' judge," the next sentence was unintelligible.

He had never head of Internal Liaisons but, then again, he had never heard of a lot of things in this time period.

"Oh, right," Alfred snapped his figures in realisation, "Don't tell Nick I was here, K."

He blinked, having just finished his inspection of his own burger, which was pretty much a standard fast food burger.

He frowned, "Why?"

"I'm supposed to be in DC for some meeting or something," Alfred ran a hand through his hair, "all boring stuff so I skipped out for a bit."

"Is that, uh, Ok?"

Weren't meetings important? Was Alfred a government agent or not?

"I guess it might have been about something important. But it wasn't,"

Alfred spoke with such certainty that he felt he had little reason to doubt him.

"Sides, I got to meet you, so totally worth it," he grinned, "Was going to come sooner but stuff kept getting in the way,"

Steve opened his mouth to question the statement.

"SO," Alfred interrupted himself suddenly before Steve could put a voice to any further questions.

"So?"

He blinked.

"Well, how do you like it?" Alfred asked in his pause.

"Like what?"

"America! The United States," Alfred made a sweeping gesture, "you know, modern day America. Anything interesting, comments, opinions?"

It was an odd question but understandable, considering his circumstances. He was asked something similar by the psychiatrist SHIELD assigned him. It was uncomfortable and he had not gone back. Alfred appeared to simply be genuinely interested in a happy, friendly sort of way.

"It is," he paused to think, "bright,"

Alfred quirked an eyebrow.

"I mean all the signs and ads… and other things," he finished lamely unsure how to describe the overwhelming amount of…stuff that was now available, "There is definitely much more colour around."

He glanced at the flashing billboard across the street, displaying a toothpaste commercial.

Alfred bobbed enthusiastically, "Yeah, there is a lot of crap around these days."

"But most of it's awesome so you'll find some use for it,"

Steve eyed him skeptically. Alfred continued grinning and munching on his burger.

He sighed, "I suppose I miss some of the old places. It is odd. The streets are the same but everything else has changed."

Alfred nodded empathetically, "Yeah, that's ruff,"

"It's got'ta be hard to slot back in after so much time. I'm always surprised at the amount of change that occurs even in a short period of time. Must be hard to wake up and miss the transition."

It almost sounded like Alfred understood his situation. Really understood it. Like he knew what it was like to have the world warp and reform into something not quite familiar. That couldn't be right.

"But, dude, no need to worry. There's a tone of stuff that sick's around. That bar over there is almost 80 years old. Pretty cool huh?"

He glanced at the bar. It did have that monotone streamline quality, reminding him of a bar he and Bucky use to frequent. He would like to say he recognised it but he didn't. He never hung out around this area back in his own time.

"You know, the whole city's a bit of a mish-mash…" Alfred continued through his laps in attention. The other man began to prattle on about the abundance of heritage buildings apparently still standing within the city. As he went he became more and more enthusiastic.

Steve turned his attention back towards his burger.

"Totally cool right?" Alfred finally finished his monologue. Steve did not think that anyone would remember so many random facts about the Chrysler Building.

Maybe Alfred was a historian.

"Hmm," he agreed for lack of anything better to do.

He signed. It was hard to match Alfred's enthusiasm and be a good conversationalist. He wanted to be more invested but it was hard to adjust. Alfred was the first proper conversation he had had in weeks and he was barely contributing, being more preoccupied with Alfred's motive than anything else.

When he had gone down the world had been at war and when he awoke they weren't. That alone was inconceivable not even counting everything else. It was hard to move past that feeling of displacement. Of having his whole life gone and replaced by the unfamiliar. There were so many things he did not understand. Everyone he had ever known was dead or dying of old age….

"All I have to say is don't stress the modern stuff. It'll fall into place, I can tell," Alfred interrupted his downward spiral. He seamed to be doing too much of that sort of thinking these days.

"Just got'ta get active,"

There it was again. That feeling that Alfred understood his situation.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Alfred clapped his hands together, "can I have your autograph,"

He pulled out a stack of paper, from where he had no idea, and handed it to him.

Steve startled at the sudden change in topic. He was slightly relieved. Alfred seemed rather scatterbrained while at the same time knowing exactly what he was talking about.

"Just one?" He said perplexed, looking at the stack. Every piece contained a picture of himself, striking a heroic.

"I'm getting them for my friends, they'll be so happy," Alfred grinned.

"Sign the first one to Alfred and the second one to Mattie. The rest you can just wright whatever. I'll hand them out at our next meeting."

He looked down at the sheets and sighed. One thing he did not expect was that, upon awaking, he would start signing autographs again. Back when 'Captain America,' were a stage performance he had signed quite a few autographs for children or parents with children. He was rather surprised when a random agent had approached him and asked for his autograph.

' _To Alfred,_

 _A good American,_

 _From Captain America'_

It was his standard message from back in the day.

To say Alfred was ecstatic would be an understatement. It was odd to watch a grown man dance about like a child on Christmas morning. He repeated the message for 'Mattie,' and the rest of the stack. Alfred continued to grin like he was privy to a joke Steve was not a part of. He wondered if it were another of those modern things or if it was Alfred being Alfred. He had come to the cautious conclusion that Alfred was a nice guy, enthusiastic and maybe a bit obsessed about history, but nice. That did not stop him from wanting to know more. There was still too much of a mystery to simply let the matter drop. However, it did stop him from attempting to grill Alfred for information. He liked the man and it was not like he had done anything wrong by being overly friendly.

"Thanks man, this is great. The others are going to love it,"

"You're welcome, I suppose," this whole meeting had been rather odd.

Alfred shoved the paper…somewhere… in his pocket? He then stretched, giving Steve a thump on the back.

"Take it a day at a time and all that. And don't freak about the small stuff. You're a cool dude, like, a hundred times more amazing in real life. "

He frowned at the sudden advice mixed in with admiration. He did not know why but he suddenly felt better about himself. Like his discomfort was justified and he would improved given some time.

"If you ever what to know more about the city. I have, like, a tone of information on old buildings."

Alfred handed him a card with Internal Liaisons imprinted across the top along with a series of contact numbers.

"Just give'em a ring, K."

It seemed that Alfred was probably telling the truth about Internal Liaisons. He dismissed the thought of Alfred being a SHIELD agent sent to check up on him. He slipped the card into his pocket.

"What would…" he looked up, the sentence dying. Alfred had disappeared. He looked around. There was no sign of the man. None of the MacDonald patrons seemed to have noticed anything either, continuing on with their conversations and whatever else. He met the eyes of a shorter man who scowled at him. He stood, swiftly moving outside to check down the street. Nothing.

If he held any doubts about Alfred's odd nature that certainly laid them to rest. There was definitely something different about him. Something he was missing.

When he returned home he made a bee-line for his phone, pulling out the notebook that contained his SHIELD contact number. If anyone knew anything about Alfred it would be SHIELD. Not to say that he thought the man was a threat or anything but he was curious. He knew he knew the man from somewhere and he had a gut feeling that Alfred might not be completely normal.

. . . . .

"What do you mean I'm not authorised?"

Fury scowled as Rogers' indignant voice echoed over the line.

"You're not a SHIELD agent, Rogers. This is confidential stuff, we don't just hand it out left and right,"

"Now perhaps, if you become more active, you'll be able to access that information,"

Fury practically saw Rogers' frown. He was clearly displeased by Fury's response.

"You can not hide away forever," Fury warned, making his own frustration known.

"The world needs Captain America,"

Rogers released a breath of air, "With all due respect sir, the world has being doing just fine without me. There are plenty of other well adjusted people to fill my role."

Despite the less than positive response Rogers seemed to have mellowed out in his determination not to become 'involved.' Something seamed to have changed. It was minuscule, a slight hesitation in his inflections, but Fury caught it. Rogers sounded interested, curious, more attentive.

At least some good came from Jones' meddling. He could say that he was unsurprised that Rogers saw, at least partly, through Jones' odd perception filter. Rogers, despite outward appearance, did have a good head on his shoulders and strong intuition. If Steve was anything near as dedicated or curious about Jones as he had been than he would not let the matter drop.

"I can not give you, an external power, access to information. That is how it is."

If this is what it took to get Rogers interested in SHEILD work than so be it.


	3. The Internal Liaison Bureau

The Internal Liaison Bureau

Summery: Mark Blunt, head of the Internal Liaison Bureau, looks back on his career.

. . . . .

The fact that the alien incursion into New York barely phased Mark Blunt was a testament to all the insanity he put up with. Mostly because he had seen the alien Alfred affectionately named Tony several times. He even exchanged insults with the creature on occasion. He knew they were out there. The next logical step would be invasion. Though, he was pretty sure everyone had been blindsided by the Chitauri's sudden appearance.

Blunt eyed the wreckage of the old stone building. It was a wonder it was still standing, having had a three story tall fish-alien-monster-thing ram it full force. It was a shame for such an old, historic building to come to such an ungraceful end.

Down in the wreckage, sorting through piles of wood and rubble, was Alfred. His favored bomber jacket replaced with a standard volunteer firefighter fluro orange. Around him, and scattered across several blocks, where The Internal Liaison Bureau's best and brightest who had once again been roped into helping Alfred with his task of the week. Though this one was considerably more noteworthy than some of the other crusades Alfred had dragged the department into.

Being head of the department excluded him from such adventures, allowing him to take on the task of keeping his circus of a department running. For now that consisted of keeping an eye on Alfred from a distance and allowing everyone else to do the grunt work. It had been a long time since he had done any fieldwork and he enjoyed how his presence seamed to make everyone nervous.

He would be the first to admit that he had something of a temper. He yelled a lot, which, as his his wife often remarked, was bad for his blood pressure. And he did over react on occasion. He liked to say it was justified given what he dealt with on a regular basis. Honestly, he had aged almost double in his fifteen years as the Internal Liaison Bureau's chief.

On paper their job was simple, protect and keep hidden one Alfred F. Jones, The United States of America. They had all the resources of both the CIA and the FBI at their deposal; it should be a walk in the park. Except, keeping track of Alfred was a lot like trying to predict the weather, you could do all the research, have all correct science but still say sunny and then have it pour.

Alfred was enthusiastic, motivated and passionate to a fault. He could also teleport, knew every city down to the most minute detail like the back of his hand, and was a magnet for the dangerous and the ridiculous. Thus, their simple job became something a little bit impossible.

Alfred did not care for the surveillance either and, though he did not go out of his way to make their job harder, he certainly did not try to make it easier. If Alfred was not running around buying random objects because they, 'were awesome' and, 'dude, I'm jut helping the economy,' he was accidentally stumbling onto secret mafia meetings or an underground drug cash. There had been times, a lot more than he was happy admitting, when his department functioned little better than a headless chicken.

It was situations like: Alfred substituting for a history professor and accidentally teaching a room of collage student's confidential government secrets.

Alfred switching out their uniforms with I LOVE AMERICA shirts.

Alfred taking spontaneous trips to Canada without going through the correct diplomatic procedures.

Alfred disappearing down the Grand Canyon, sending the agent following him into a panic, thinking he had fallen of the edge.

Alfred propping into the Oval Office to say 'Hi!' to the president.

Alfred tricking a team of field agents into donating half their budget to AIDS research while gambling in Los Vegas. That had been a headache and a half.

Alfred convincing the logistic team to divert several trucks of military rations to the LA Homeless society. By the time the whole mess had been sorted out the rations had already been distributed. Blunt had swept the whole thing under the rug so to speak. There was no need for the logistic members to be fired, they were a good team and he had first hand experience with Alfred's persuasive nature.

The there was Alfred handing out Internal Liaison numbers on unsanctioned business cards to every, vagabond, bleeding heart and average Joe with a sob story, like they were going out of fashion. They got calls every week from these people. He did not know how Alfred did it but the calls were always serious. People in trouble. People with no one else to call. Lost houses, lose relatives, trapped, kidnapped, they heard it all. And not one prank call aside from the ones Alfred himself made. Considering the amount of the cards currently floating around in circulation it was quite a feet. So he had assigned a number of people to a call room at headquarters and made sure the issues were resolved. It was easier than having Alfred follow him around and incessantly nag him.

Sometimes it felt like that man was everywhere and nowhere at the same time and all he did was run damage control and stop all their operations from dissolving into chaos. Thus, trying to set up surveillance was an almost pointless endeavour, which he insisted on anyway. They needed to write something on the interdepartmental reports.

Alfred's work with the government came with its own set of issues. On one hand Alfred was often significantly more serious in his government work, making him less of a trouble magnet, on the other hand he tended to ignore proper procedure. One week he would be working in family affairs and the next it would be the environment. They had a running dialogue with both the FBI and the CIA in order to keep track of his exploits, making sure people who did not have clearance did not discover anything.

Then there would be weeks and even months of non-activity. In which Alfred did nothing more than wonder the streets of America's cities and spend hours upon hours simply talking to people.

Every now and then some upstart rookie would get it into his head that there was some sort of significance to the people Alfred talked too. That there was a greater design to the seemingly aimless wonderings.

Once, when he had been younger and less prone to intelligence, he had asked Alfred about his habit. And you know what he had gotten?

"Dude. You need to get out more," had been thrown him.

It took him an embarrassing long time to realise that the statement was literal command to get out and interact with the people of America.

Buzzing in his left ear distracted him from his thoughts.

He grumbled, tapping the side of his head, activating his com, "What is it Henry."

Down below Alfred pulled a section of rubble free and several people shouted. It appeared another survivor had been recovered. It was not a problem with Alfred, the man was right in front of him.

"Sir, we have a Colonel Samuel Jenson on the line…from the Canadian Internal Mediatory and International Association,"

The Canadian Internal Mediatory and International Association, a name he still did not understand, was the Canadian equivalent of the Internal Liaison Bureau.

He was well acquainted with Samuel Jenson, having a bit of an antagonistic relationship with the man.

"Jenson," he greeted once the call was transferred.

"Blunt," the gruff voice responded.

"Do you have eyes on Alfred?" was Jenison's first question. He frowned, annoyed. Jenson was always quick to make his opinion know about their lack of coordination when it came to Alfred's exploits.

"Yes. My eyes, in fact. Is Canada's enroot?" It was the main reason he received calls from the Canadian Internal Mediatory and International Association.

Jenison huffed, "Mathew disappeared off radar about 20 minuets ago. We think he is on rout to America's location."

"When you say 20 minuets is that a 'he disappeared 20 minuets ago' or a 'we just noticed he was gone 20 minuets ago," he responded, reminding that man that at least they knew where Alfred was half the time. Whatever forces kept the public from discovering Alfred, Canada had the ability dialed up to 11. The man could be alone in a room with you and you would not even notice.

"He is suspected to have disappeared 20 minuets ago," was Jenson's irritable reply.

"So he's already here," he concluded, scanning the wreckage. It was impossible to say really.

"When we notice him I'll make sure he's cleared."

They had a special procedure for Canada's visit, considering their frequency.

"Appreciated," came the forced replay before the line when dead. Blunt grumbled to himself. Asshole.

Usually it took Alfred noticing Canada before any of his people realised the other Personification was around. Something, which would have been more worrying if not for everyone else having the same problem.

Because Alfred could be very unobservant when he wanted to be this could take anywhere from a few seconds to a few hours. He turned his attention back to Alfred, scanning the area for Canada and sending out a general alert to his people. Unsurprisingly, no one had sighted anything.

He watched as Alfred effortlessly lifted a large beam, all the while chatting with and encouraging the people around him. Despite this impossible display of strength none of the workers noticed. He had long accepted it as something that just was.

Over his many years he had had a lot of time to think about and consider what, exactly, a Personification was. And, now, at the end of his career he was only just beginning to think he might have some clue.

He had been transferred into the Internal Liaison Bureau at the ripe age of twenty-two after he had accidentally offended his senior supervisor on his second field mission with the FBI. At the time the Internal Liaison Bureau was know as the place where careers went to die. Little was known about the department and, especially among the lower ranks, it was considered a dead end, which, for some reason, had several field teams. The fact that it was officially listed as a branch of the federal government whose primary job was to, 'assist in liaising between state and federal subdivisions,' did not help matters. His first years working for the Internal Liaison Bureau did nothing to change his mind. For the most part he was sent to observe politicians and occasionally civilians for random or unknown reasons. It took him a while to realise that each of his targets interacted with the same blue-eyed, blond-hired man, wearing a Word War Two bomber jacket on nearly every occasion.

When he brought up this observation with his senior officer he had received a congratulatory slap on the back and the compliment, "good for you. You know it took me three years to notice him."

Five years later he finally worked out the whole truth.

The strange man, know as Alfred F. Jones, was the human embodiment of America. Officially, they where known as Personifications and every country had one. The funny thing was the fact that he had met Alfred before as a child. It had been on a playground in which he, and several other children, had played a rousing came of tag.

As he had been a rather resentful person back then he had often bitterly contemplated how the Great United States could produce someone so blase, stupid, ignorant and carefree as their Personification. At the time it had been proof of his county's ineptitude. While every other country seemed to have a serious, hardworking Personification they had Alfred. Later he would learn how completely incorrect that thought was, other Personifications not being quite the shining bastions of nationhood he thought them to be.

At least, once he knew the whole truth about Alfred, he fitted in better with the department. It was also the start of a lot of running around and damage control.

While he had not hated the work he certainly did not enjoyed it.

He had become cynical over the years. Very cynical. When he looked at his country he saw a thousand problems. Problems hundred times too big for him. Too big for any individual. While he had grown jaded Alfred continued on with the same hopeful enthusiasm. Alfred still believed every individual made a difference.

People, in general, wanted to be better than what they were. Alfred was what America wanted to be. The idealisation. The hopes and dreams. It took him a long time to come to this rather obvious realisation. Twelve years in fact.

After that, after he put aside his bitterness about not fulfilling his dream of joining the FBI and accepted his new position, life got a lot better. Not easier, the Internal Liaison Bureau always seamed to be in a state of chaos, but better.

Two years, and a slew of promotions, later he was nominated the new department head. Thus, began a seventeen-year marathon of craziness that would drive anyone up the wall. It had been tough. Tough but rewarding.

He had done a lot of reforming. Worked in a new command structure and updated procedure. And, though he would never admit it out loud, he did like Alfred despite what a pain in the ass he could be.

And now, with a new age of technology really taking off, he felt it was time for someone younger to take on the role.

Someone more capable to keeping up with Alfred's boundless energy and ridiculousness.

Someone more qualified to deal with SHIELD, the shady spy agency looming not quite menacingly but not exactly comfortingly in the shadows. Blunt did not like them. They had become increasingly more influential over the years. Blunt knew a change in the wind when he saw it.

His com. buzzed.

"We have eyes on Canada sir," Henry Jake, communication specialist, replied.

He looked down and, sure enough there, standing next to Alfred, was Canada. How long he had been there was anyone's guess.

"Note the time and location. Lets get the paperwork through," he ordered, relishing the nostalgia making the command brought. It had been too long since he had done fieldwork.

"Yes sir,"

"And get someone to notify the Canadian Internal Mediatory and International Association."

Of course, the day before he was due to step down was the day aliens invaded New York. He had known something was coming by the increase in Alfred's activity. That and he had gotten several calls from SHIELD representatives passively aggressively imploring him to keep a tighter leash on the man. He snorted, the day he could control Alfred was the day hell froze over.

He would not miss that unpredictability. He definitely would not miss inventing new ways to lecture Alfred when he got himself in trouble. Nor would he miss getting yelled at by his superiors, the long hours spent searching for Alfred when he pulled one of his disappearing acts and the stress. He firmly blamed the job for his premature balding and grey hair.

But he would definitely miss the feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction, the sense of camaraderie, and the feeling that he was making a small difference. And Alfred, in all his ridiculousness, obviously cared about his country and was okay once you got to know him. Though he could do without his continuous attempts to throw him a farewell party.

Mark Blunt, head of the Internal Liaison Bureau, looks back on his career and doesn't regret a thing.

. . . . . .

"Yeah, man you'll need a crane to lift this stuff," Alfred gestured to the columns of brink they had been carefully navigating and clearing around. Even with superior strength there was a limit to what he could do.

"No shit," Ackley snorted, waving down at Lloyd to give the all clear.

"But there's a shortage of cranes at the moment. What with a large section of the city being in shambles."

Alfred sighed, glancing over the rubble.

He blinked in surprise.

"Mattie! When did you get here!"

Mathew sighed, giving him an exasperated look, "I've been here for an hour,"

"Oh, hahaha. You really need to speak up more,"

Mathew rolled his eyes.

"Sorry I wasn't here sooner. This whole situation has caused quite a stir."

That was an understatement. Now the, 'are we alone?' question had been answered all sorts of shit would go down.

"Yeah, I mean, aliens man, who would have thought,"

"We already knew about aliens," Mathew pointed out.

"Oh right," he grinned, "But Tony doesn't really count since he's such a cool guy,"

Mathew, in a more subdue voice, he added, "It's the people I'm worried about."

He snorted, "An't we all."

They stood for a few seconds in silence. Things would definitely start changing. He was two parts excited one part absolutely terrified, not that he let it show.

With aliens and the revelation of metahumans it was going to get awfully busy very soon. A glance at Canada showed he shared a similar mindset.

"So what do you think we should do about that," Mathew gestured at the debris pile.

Alfred once again turned to examine the problem before him, "Four hundred years of experience between us, I 'm sure we can rig something up."

. . . . . .

AUTHORS NOTE: Yeah, Sorry if you read this before I edited. The last few lines were part of a future chapter I am writing. They have since been deleted. Thank you to the person who pointed it out.


	4. Frozen Sunflowers

**AN:** Probably the hardest chapter to write so far. Russia and Natasha are both difficult characters to write. Hope I did an OK job.

 **Frozen Sunflowers**

 _Summery:_ Before she met America Natasha Romanoff met Russia.

. . . . . .

The damage to New York city was astronomical, the equivalent to a natural disaster. That wasn't counting the hundreds of dead aliens rotting away. Natasha flexed her shoulder muscles to rid them of the growing stiffness that accompanied sitting still and in one position for long periods of time.

With the helicarrier being in serious need of repairs, and the general state of chaos New York was currently facing, SHIELD was stretched thin, attempting to prevent any alien biology or technology form being removed and ferreted away by various parties. Thus, a mere three days after the battle saw Natasha doing minor surveillance.

Her earpiece cracked and Barton's voice came through.

"Sector 12…The men from upstate…they the Liaison Bureau?" The slight drone in his question suggested boredom.

Natasha switched her scope to the area of concern.

They did not look too different from the civilian volunteers dotting the area and she probably would not have picked them out if she were not specifically scanning for anomalies. The main tell was how they moved with a greater awareness. After a few seconds watching how smoothly they coordinated with each other it was easy to place them as part of a single organization.

She picked out several familiar faces from various reports. That, coupled with an earlier alert about a local Liaison Bureau operation, made the assumption a safe bet. A quick check confirmed the theory.

"Yes. It's them," she answered, glancing over the rubble at a rather obvious surveillance station. It looked like a quick job.

She readjusted, moving her field of view back to her own sector, scanning for any real threats.

"Not very subtle are they," the voice of a second SHIELD field agent filtered over the line.

"We can't all be super spies," Clinton hummed and Natasha could basically see him shrug.

Though none were currently in her assigned area a quick check with the other sectors revealed an assortment of Liaison agents, all of them picking through rubble and spread out across several blocks. Thankfully, they had a low threat ranking so she would not have to be quite as vigilant in preventing them from removing hazardous material from the site.

"If they're here then doesn't that mean those Personification guys are here too?' another agent spoke.

She inhaled, giving the area another sweep.

"Good luck pinning one down."

She had first hand experience with how effective their perception filters were. As natural defenses went it was one of the best she had seen. It usually took her a good few minuets to triangulate their exact location. Often, as was todays case, she took her queue from the Liaison Bureau, following their line of attention.

"Right. Forgot they have that perception filter thing,"

She ignored the increase in chanter as several agents discussed theories behind the phenomenon.

"You've met him right? The American one?"

Barton switched to a private channel.

"I have,"

"So, what are they like. I always seem to be off base when one's around?"

The question caused her to pause. How to answer a something like that?

"Very human," while at the same time being the most inhuman beings she had ever met.

"Huh. Vague," came the non committal response.

"It is difficult to describe," she intoned.

"Gotcha," there was a pause, "But you're gonna' have to give me something. Information's really scarce on those guys."

For good reason.

"Later," she answered.

. . . . . . Many Years Earlier. . . . . . . . .

Natasha, book in hand, sat comfortably at the corner table, nearest the window. Dressed in neutral colours she fit perfectly with the restaurant's other customers.

Across the street rose the location of her current target. A reformists who had been quietly working his way through the ranks. It had been 4 hours and 42 minuets since he had entered the building. If he adhered to his usual schedule he would leave in approximately 20 minuets and drive his state issue automobile to his favorite restaurant. He would then travel northbound. Tonight he would not make it home. There would been an extra coating of ice on the road, not unusual for this time of year. He would take a turn too fast and his car would flip. His death would be a tragic and avoidable loss.

"Is this chair occupied?"

Natasha squashed her natural urge to startle upon the sudden address. Carefully, she kept her features neural and schooled into a mask of polite surprise. She looked up from her book. She added a slight hit of irritation. Something to be expected when one was interrupted by a complete stranger.

It took a concerted effort not to flinch when she met the pale eyes of the man standing across from her.

Potential threat.

A good two heads taller then her, heavily build, good special awareness. Be on guard. Her advantage was speed and flexibility but any hits she took would be doubly debilitating.

"No, not at all," she answered politely, smiling in a disarming manner.

He sat down and smiled back at her. It was both warm and incredibly chilling at the same time. She immediately disguarded this as a chance meeting.

"It is nice weather today," the man commented. An innocent statement, which could be taken for simple pleasantries. Natasha sensed there was something more to the comment.

"Yes, it is quite warm," she folded her hands in front of her. An action designed to make others feel at ease. Internally, she sorted through all the possible moments in which she might have slipped up.

Who was this man? Who did he work for? She did not recognize him from any warrant, bounty, or threat list.

"Да, unfortunately it will be cold again tonight."

Natasha did not narrow her eyes or give any outward sign of her suspicion. The way he was directing the conversation spoke of an ulterior motive. This man could not know her plan… She had not shared her plan with anyone.

"Not a supporter of the cold," she asked humorously. Sometimes letting your opponent reveal their hand was the best cause of action.

"I do not mind the cold, it is still and quiet relaxing. You would agree?"

"I suppose," she answered. She had already pegged the man as someone who would not easily be distracted by charm or wit. Obviously, he knew more about her than she did about him.

"нет, it is the death that follows that I dislike,"

She allowed her eyes to grow shape, abandoning pretense.

This man knew her plans.

Somewhere along the line she had been compromised. That, in itself, did not bother as much as the fact that she knew little about the man before her or who he worked for. Instead of shyly avoiding eye contact she met his gaze.

It was cold and hard. It reminded of a hash winter storm she had gotten lost in as a young child.

"I do not believe you introduced yourself," she asked, allowing a layer of frost into her tone.

"Ivan Braginsky," he gave an empty smile. She filed the name away. Even cover names could tell a lot about a person.

"The man you are following…I like him very much,"

She tensed, immediately forming several attack and evasion plans. If she had any doubts that put them to rest. The tension around them slowly increased.

However, her worry was unneeded as Braginsky simply stood and brushed himself off.

"It has been nice meeting you."

He than walked away, exposing his back. She narrowed her eyes. Around her patrons of the restaurant were giving her confused looks. Almost as if they were just noticing the tension in the room.

"I think we will meet again," Braginsky said just at the door.

She instinctively checked for the familiar weight of her weapons. Braginsky was obviously confidant she would not open fire in the middle of a busy restaurant. Calmly, she paid the bill and shrugged on her coat, following the larger man onto the street.

Braginsky was quick to disappear amongst the crowds. It should not be possible for a man of Braginsky's stature to disappear so quickly. She ended up standing, annoyed, in the middle of a busy street, no sign of the large man anywhere. The feeling of something crunching underfoot caused her to pause. Distracted, she looked down, bending to pick up the sunflower. Odd. She glanced around, noting the lack of flower venders. It was large and bright yellow. A splash of colour on the grey pavement.

Natasha continued down the street. By the time she abandoned shadowing Braginsky her original target had already left for home.

But her cover was blown so it mattered not.

When she reported in the response was particular. It was apparent that something was known about the stranger. The assignment was immediately scrapped and a lot of other potential missions were put on hold. There was suddenly talk of 'waiting a bit' and 'hoping he will lose interest.' Whoever he was he made her normally frigid superiors weary. Someone influential then.

"Ivan Braginsky," one of the lower informants shivered, "Not sure who he is exactly. Probably, government or old money. The higher ups say to avoid him if possible."

At the time that had been enough information. Though she always maintained a curiosity. Sometimes on cold nights or on long field assignments those cold eyes would chase her out of dreams.

If was odd because Braginsky had never come across as frightening… dangerous maybe, but not scary. He was almost familiar.

. . . . . .

Her day had not been good. In fact, her whole year had been hard. Several failed missions the Red Storm debacle, an increase in training. She could feel herself wearing. It was nothing too extreme just an occasional tiredness. It was a feeling she was unaccustomed to.

She stood in the doorway watching commuters walk past. They did not know the world that existed beyond their own. Many ever strayed from their lives, content to continue living as they did. She would know as she spent most of hers' observing and camouflaging among them.

"Hey Mrs. You alright?"

The American accent was so heavily it was almost painful. Natasha looked across at the blond haired figure, dressed in a ridiculously large winter coat and standing several paces away. He had paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the doorway, hands in pocks and grinning.

"Я не говорю по-английски," she responded even though her English was perfect. She did not want to deal with idiotic American tourists. They were slowly becoming more common in the major cities.

"Had one of those days huh? Yeah, those are ruff," the American continued like they were friends.

"Не понимаю," she reiterated, hoping he would take a hint and leave.

"Leave it alone Al," a sudden second voice spoke. No warning. Like he had appeared from nothing. The fact that she had not sensed other man arrive immediately had her on alert. One second it had been the American and the next there had been a second man.

"Nar, she's got it," The America responded cryptically. Carefully, she examined him with new eyes. It was difficult to tell but he was probably well built. And, she hadn't noticed at first, but there was something vaguely inauspicious about him.

It was a subtle thing, which she would not have recognized had the second man not arrived. Was she slipping? Surely she was not that tired.

There were very few people that could shroud their intentions like that. The second man, save for appearing from nowhere, appeared completely normal. He wore a more modest coat and was giving her an apologetic smile. He was attempting to cover for the American's odd behavior. The similarities between the two suggested a blood relation.

All her senses told her that he was a non-threat.

"Hey Mrs., you live around here?" the American continued.

She did not answer, continuing the appearance of being unable to understand English. It would be best to send these two on their way then follow at a distance. She was currently unsure if she was being specifically targeted or not. Surely this meeting had some purpose, it was too suspicious not to.

"The name's Alfred," the American introduced himself, "and this is Mattie,"

The second man sighed, "We're going to be late,"

Canadian. She identified the accent.

"Don't mind him," Alfred waved the Canadian aside, "He's a spoil sport,"

"It would be nice not to be late for once." Alfred was interrupted again.

Alfred rolled his eyes, shooting the other an annoyed look before turning back to her, "you ever in America. Totally look me up."

She was presented with a small card. It contained a number and nothing else.

Alfred was dragged away. He gave her an overly energetic wave.

"What are you doing," the Canadian asked suspiciously when they thought they were out of earshot.

"Hahah, what're you talking about. I'm just being friendly,"

"… Ivan already hates you enough," the other said, "Let's not make it worse."

"Ivan can go suck a…"

Alfred continued, causing the Canadian to rub his eyes tiredly.

Carefully, she shadowed them down the street. There had been no real malice or threat in the exchange. However… Her eyes narrowed. Ivan? There were dozens of Ivans' in Russia, however, there was something about their demeanor that reminded her strongly of one very particular Ivan.

Unfortunately, like Braginsky, both man vanished easily amongst the crowd. She frowned when she lost sight of Alfred's blond hair.

No-matter how she twisted the conversation and exchange around in her head she could not find an ulterior motive or purpose. It had been too out of place and odd to be anything but. Perhaps the exchange was constructed to pass on information. She looked at the business card.

The number did not connect when she tried it. A dead end. Unfortunately, no matter where she looked or what sources she drug up no information revealed itself.

. . . . . .

Natasha could feel the trap closing around her. It was a subtle thing, nothing more than a tension in the air, but she was experienced enough to know when she was being hunted.

It was enough for her to seek out the safety of one of her many safe houses. One of the ones only she knew about. She had several prepared in case of an emergency, all equipped with supplies to support her for several weeks along with a weapons cache.

This particular place was an abounded train station outside the city.

The location had a strategic value, being close enough the city to make getting there quick yet far enough away to afford her some space. It also contained plenty of escape roots and the layout was complex enough that it gave her an advantage over those who where not familiar with the location.

She entered through the south, pausing to listen to the roar of a train as it past. Though the station was closed there was still a rail line running nearby. She had the timetable of the passing trains memorized, it being one of her emergency exits. Boarding a moving train was hard…but not impossible given the right equipment and knowledge.

The first thing she did was head to her weapons hold to resupply. She pulled out several different forms of alternative identification, switching them with the one she was currently traveling with. Even though her enemies were yet to reveal themselves she had several ideas on who they might be. More urgently was their efficiency in honing in on her. A traitor or, more likely, someone who wanted her dead had given her away.

Which was why she was here and not elsewhere. Natasha made her way through the eerily quite auditorium. Cool moonlight was streaming in through several cracks in the roof.

She paused. A splash of colour caught her eye. She frowned, approaching the offending object.

It was a sunflower. Placed at the center of the large hall, it stood out against the greys and dust of the rubble.

Wearily, she picked it up, examining it. A normal sunflower. Her mind raced.

How had the sunflower come to be here? Obviously, it had not grown here.

It had been placed here deliberately. A message? It was fresh. It had been placed here recently. Slowly, she let her hand drop, allowing the flower to fall to the ground.

Someone had known where she was going. Someone knew she was here.

A hardness coiled in her gut.

She pulled out her gun, scanning the several entrances. There was no way to know where an attack might come from. The position at the center of the auditorium was not ideal. A trap? Possibly.

"I did not ask your name the last time we met. That was rude of me,"

She spun around, weapon raised and pointing at the figure in the doorway.

She was met with the slightly confused expression of a large man wearing a heavy overcoat, which resembled that of old military uniforms of the red army. It was offset by a white scarf.

For a few seconds she did not recognized who it was.

Ivan Braginsky.

He was different from their original meeting…He did not seem as hash this time. He was softer, like melting snow, looking at her gun with more confusion than anything else.

"You do not like sunflowers?" Came the concerned question.

It was an odd thing to ask. Perhaps he was attempting to distract her. Even so she found herself lowing the weapon every so slightly.

"I not do care for them," she answered. As they currently stood Braginsky held the advantage, being in a doorway, which would provide cover.

He smiled again, "That is a shame. I always find they remind me of the sun. And summer."

He looked up towards the hole in the ceiling, which was now showing a lightening sky. If she was going to shoot him this would be an ideal moment.

She didn't. Similar to their last meeting she found she was unafraid of Braginsky.

Somehow they both ended up outside, sitting on a bit of rubble. The stress must be catching up to her because this was a very dangerous position to be in. Out in the open with little cover and next to a potential enemy. Whatever the case Braginsky was not exhibiting any signs of malicious intent. She had a strong feeling that she was missing a vital piece of information.

So she sat, on guard to any threat, watching the sunrise.

"You are very good," she glanced sideward at Braginsky. It had been the first thing he had said aside from a brief attempt at explaining the merits of sunflowers. A compliment?

"But you are alone."

She frowned. She supposed that her enemies did outnumber her. She had a feeling that wasn't exactly what he was referring to.

"Being alone is not good,"

"No…" she answered. Being alone had its advantages. There was zero chance at being betrayed and less responsibility. She paused. But it did make things harder…and perhaps it was not the more ideal state.

She wondered where this conversation was going. Why was Braginsky here?

"This place is not safe. Several people know you are here," hardness crept into his tone. She tensed subtly in response.

"And where is safe? Mr. Braginsky" she questioned.

"Not here," he smiled again, this time it was sad.

"Please refer to me as Ivan. That name is better,"

She sighed, "That is very unhelpful."

She had a feeling she would be getting little in the way of useful information out of Braginsky...Ivan.

"Да, very unhelpful,"

Well that could be taken as either a positive or a negative. The sun peeked over a hill.

"Your future is important… Natasha..."

Important? Important to who?

Ivan stood as if he intended to leave. Where he was going was anyone's guess. She supposed he might have transport on the other side of the building.

"I thought you were going to ask for my name…didn't you say that was rude."

Ivan looked vaguely surprised.

"Да, I did say that."

"Natasha Romanoff," she introduced herself, it was just an alias, even if it was one of her preferred ones, "I suppose it is nice to meet you,"

Ivan gave her another smile this one remained her more of a lit window. One that shut out the cold. There was something elusively inhuman about it.

This time she did not follow him. She had bigger problems. Her safe house was compromised and she needed to move as quickly as possible.

Natasha frowned when her fingers brushed against something out of place. She paused in her repacking. It was the card the American had given her. She finished with her resupplying and headed for the nearest exit. Perhaps it was time she left Russia. For a while.

Unfortunately, she did not quite make it out of the country and wouldn't for several more years.

. . . Several years later . . .

To the casual onlooker it would appear that they were in a harmless business meeting.

Only, there was nothing really subtle about Nick Fury, especially when he was not trying to hide who and what he was.

She herself was tense. This was a new and dangerous situation. But she had assurances that her word would be heard. For one of the first times she trusted those issuances.

She was also confident. She had been one of the best

She had a lot of information to share and she was under no illusion that SHIELD would deadly like to obtain said information.

Instead of a list of demands she had asked for two things, the first was asylum within SHIELD and the second…

"Ivan Bratansky," Fury repeated slowly, "and where did you learn that name?"

So he did no who Ivan was. She was unsurprised. SHIELD had access to many resources.

"From its owner,"

She was unsure whether Fury's raised brows were from actual surprise or an act.

"Interesting," he commented.

"Unfortunately, I can not make this information available…" he eventually answered.

At least there was information. And he hadn't said 'no' outright, meaning she had a chance in the future. Secrets, in her experience, rarely stayed secret forever.


	5. A for Effort (part 1)

**A for Effort (part 1)**

 **Summery:** In which Clint wants to meet a personification and gets what he asked for.

Or

An average kidnapping turns into a matter of national security.

 **Note** : Ok, so this chapter was taking and age to write (work, study, and all that) so I split it in half. Hopefully, the next part will be finished within a shorter amount of time.

. . . . . .

It was never a good day when you where captured by the enemy. That was Clint's general line of thought when he woke up, blindfolded and tied to a chair, in some foreign location. His head was swimming and his stomach was churning.

Not the most ideal situation.

He lent back, riding out a wave nausea.

The next several seconds were spent shaking the effects of whatever foreign tranquilizer he had dosed with. It took about ten minutes to suppress the need to throw up and clear his head enough to properly take in his situation.

His shoes were gone, as was most of his gear. He shifted, testing his bindings.

Experimentally, he rocked back and forth. His chair was made of heavy timber and he could probably tip it if needed.

If he listened hard enough he could here distant footsteps of people moving around. The way they echoed implied a large space, the ground was hard and concreted, the air cold and dusty. There were few places where one could drag a tied, blindfolded man without notice. So he was either in an abandoned building or warehouse. Not terribly useful information but better than nothing.

Unfortunately, his exact location was still a mystery. He had no way of knowing how long he had been asleep. He could be anywhere.

Great.

On the more optimistic side of things, whoever had nabbed him had missed one of the small, sharp implements sewn into his shirt. What's more, he had been duck-taped to the chair, meaning he could cut through the bindings.

Clint did some expert twisting and wiggling until he was in a position to work the tiny mettle blade free with his teeth. Crewing through fabric, even a light mesh pocket, was a lot harder than expected.

He winced when he accidentally cut his lip.

How had he blown his cover anyway? It had been a long rang surveillance mission. Zero contact with the target.

He finally worked the blade free.

Did they know who he was?

He paused.

Wait…maybe they didn't know who he was?

They had left him alone…not a very smart move… so they might not. Common sense dictated that one should keep an eye on a guy known to be a top SHIELD agent.

Carefully, he contorted his neck, spiting the blade over his shoulder so it landed in his hand.

Or maybe they were underestimating him. The more likely possibility. It wasn't uncommon-to be underestimated-when one was frequently seen fighting alongside living gods and indestructible green monsters.

That still did not explain how they had got him. The last thing he remembered was sitting on a rooftop, pulling a windbreaker tight around his shoulders to protect him from the chill.

The answer, whatever it may be, was irrelevant. The fact that they had known where to nab him suggested a major break in security. The whole affair had been too smooth to be anything but.

The sound of voices, muffled, caused him to pause. Clint stilled, shoving the blade up his sleeve in case anyone entered.

Muffled murmuring,

"…two days….ticket…." Clint strained to catch the words. Would be great to have enhanced hearing right about now.

"…bloody doesn't shut up does he?"

The voices became clearer as whoever was speaking neared the door.

"… keeps removing the gag."

Gag? He had a piece of tape over his mouth so it wasn't him they were talking about. Another prisoner?

"This whole business is a bit off if you ask me," a disgruntled second voice continued.

There was a lull in which the voices quietened.

"…haven't been told shit."

"Fucking shoot'em is what I say. Taking hostages never ends well."

"Then it's a good thing you don't say," a more threatening third voice interrupted.

A long pause.

What was this? Discord amongst the ranks. A good sign for his imminent escape.

"You two should be out the front," the third voice commented, "This level is restricted." Clint felt his skin prickle, like the owner of the voice knew he was listening.

"Was bloody checking things like we're supposed to," snapped the first man.

"Jack," the second man warned. Clint filed the name away.

"Get off it. Can't tell us what to do…"

The sound of quick movement…

"What the hell!"

"Fucker,"

Clint stained to hear. Had there been a fight?

The sounds grew more distant as the argument moved away form his door. Anything else said became inaudible. Going on his captors accents he could guess at somewhere in the United Kingdom…norther hemisphere? Though accents could be faked so the reasoning wasn't completely sound.

So there was at least three people with the high possibility of more. Maybe two groups working together. From the sounds of things there was some larger scale operation going on.

And at least one additional prisoner. Clint felt that annoying moral obligation raise its inconvenient head. Now he would not only have to escape but pull off an impromptu rescue.

Ideally, he would compete a solo escape and return for any others with back up but…well…he really hadn't liked that sound of that third man and his instincts were usually pretty good. So double escape it was.

He quickly returned to cutting through his bindings. A few accidental cuts later and he was free. Reaching up he ripped the tape from his face, taking a deep breath. Ouch, facial hair, never a fun experience.

He wasted no time in freeing his legs. Once done, he stood, stretching to loosen his joints. A lingering stiffness suggested that he had been down for at least three hours. Clint pushed aside the sensation of nausea.

How to get out of this room? After a few seconds of examining the lock he concluded that it was secure enough, preventing him from getting out under his own power. The door had obviously been refitted and upgraded quite recently.

Option B then.

Clint pressed his ear against to door, listening. The sound of shifting and the muffled steps of people moving up and down. Two guards. They appeared to be patrolling the area outside the door. Seconds ticked by. Yeah, definitely two guards.

He took a breath, knocked confidently, and then yelled, "Hey, someone out there! I got locked in,"

"What the…" someone exclaimed. Footsteps drew near.

There was sound of movement directly outside.

"Bill is that you?"

"Hold on…"the second voice interrupted, slightly deeper than the first, "That came from the cell."

A pause.

"He's not supposed to be awake for another two hours,"

Another pause.

"We should check?"

The deeper voice responded, "He's tied up. We better make sure,"

The sound of a code being punched into a keypad,

The door swung open.

"Radio in that the…"

Clint snatched the front of the guy's shirt, pulling him down and slamming a knee into his nose.

"What…" the second man began. Clint shoved the first guy backward so the man stumbled under the additional weight, darting to the left so he could deliver a punch to the ribs.

The tall man lurched backwards, reaching for a radio. Clint grabbed his arm, raising the other to block a punch to the head. Expertly he twisted, throwing the man to the ground.

A kick to the head and the guy was unconscious.

Breath in. Breath out. Clint straightened. He was still a bit nauseous and the sudden quick movement had not helped. No sign of other guards.

The hallway was long and filled with doors. These had probably been old offices before the building had been emptied and converted into…whatever it was now.

He looked back down at the two unconscious men. It was lucky that had worked. Quickly, he emptied the guy's pockets, pulling out a wallet and flipping through it, memorizing the information.

You could have all the fancy tech available but the human element would always be a point of weakness. He lifted a knife and struggled briefly to roll guy number one out of his lightweight bullet vest. Professionally, he donned the man's semi-automatic rifle, slinging a second one over his shoulder and shoving a compact handgun into his waistband. Then he stole the guy's shoes. Now he was getting places.

As proficiently as possible Clint dragged the two men into the room he had just occupied. Man, the guys were heavy. He shoved guard one and two into a pile, shutting the door. The lock clicked in place.

Initial escape successful…so far.

He slunk down the corridor, pausing every now and then to listen for footsteps. The stonework made everything echoy so it was hard to discern how far away things were.

The corridor eventually branched into a T, causing him to slow.

Carefully, Clint approached and peered around the corner. Two additional guards standing before a large metal door. Probably unlocked remotely, judging by the lack of keypad. Very high tech. Had to be a safe for something important. Was the second hostage in there? Seamed to be a bit of overkill. It could always be something else, like money, or weapons or whatever else bad guys kept in large safes.

He sized up the two men. These guys were wearing heavy body armor as opposed to fatigues and vests that the two guarding him had worn. They also had better weapons and equipment in general. It lent credence to his theory that there were two separate groups operating out of this base. One was obviously better funded than the other.

Shooting these two from a distance would be the easiest course of action. But it would be loud and definitely attract unwanted attention. With the tranquilizer still in his system and making his stomach curl in on itself, he was leery about engaging close range.

He pressed himself back against the wall, taking a calming, oxygenated breath. It would have to be quick because getting stuck in a drawn out confrontation would put him at a severe disadvantage.

The last option was heading back the way he came and finding another way out. He glanced at the safe again, feeling drawn towards it. He really wanted to know what was in that safe.

Silently, he watched the two guards waiting for his opening. One of the men shifted, facing away from his position the other glanced down, distracted. As good an opportunity as any. Quickly, he darted out, keeping low, avoiding their line of sight.

He sprung forward just as the guy nearest to him began to turn. A strike straight to the throat and the man lurched back, gasping. In a smooth circle he brought his knife around, forcing his second opponent to step back, giving him space to lash out in a kick.

The kick was blocked and Clint prevented a swing to his abdomen. A follow up punch clipped his shoulder and he winced, ducking down to avoid another and using the man's momentum to flip him over his shoulder and run him face first into a wall.

The first guy recovered, grasping for his gun. Clint lashed out, driving his knife into the man's arm, knocking the weapon to the side.

"Calling command, there is…" Clint punched him in the face, snatching the radio from his hand.

"… a problem with security," he finished, trying to make it sound as natural as possible. He body-slammed the man into the concrete.

A pause. Clint tried to get his breathing under control. The whole attack had occurred in less than second.

"Who is this, this line is emergencies only," a cool voice echoed over the line, a threat behind the worlds. Woops, Clint winced, thinking quick, "My apologies, this is Jason Robitsts. Jack left his…" Clink quickly examined one of the unconscious men, "security tag," he said, eyes falling on the ID tags the two men wore, "in the secure room. Said it fell off, needs it to leave base."

There was a threatening rumble across the line.

He winced, mentally crossing his figures. It was a pretty weak reason to get a high security door open but Clint was hoping that there was enough animosity between the two groups running the operation that they wouldn't think too hard about it. And he knew that Jack had been to see the prisoner at some point during the day, seeing as he had been complaining about the visit.

"Those idiots," snapped the radio, then a lot of growling about compromising the mission.

"You have two seconds to grab it…when I get my hands on that buffoon,"

There was a series of clicks and the large door unlocked itself. Clint hurried in, immediately spotting a sandy haired man tied and blindfolded at the center of the room. So it was a holding sell after all.

He moved forward.

He fiddled briefly with the blindfold. It was removed. And for about a second Clint was frozen, breath caught, staring in disbelief. The phrase 'getting hit by a tone of bricks' was apt.

He had seen the pictures and surveillance images, heard Natasha talk about them on occasion, read a few classified files that he may or may not have had clearance for. But he had always had the worst luck when it came to meeting one, specificity, the American one, who seamed to drop by SHEILD facilities on a semi-regular basis.

And yet…here he was…. Alfred F. Jones. Personification of the United States.

"Finally! Man you guys are the worst kidnappers ever," the living embodiment of his country complained.

"I'm starving, lunch time was, like, an hour ago,"

How? When? Did whoever these people where know that they had the physical embodiment of the United States tied up in the basement?

A pause…"Hey you're not a kidnapper,"

He stared some more. What where the odds of getting caught by the same people? He would hazard a guess and say they won't good. Fuck. What the hell was going on.

"Hey, you allrig..."

"You're him," he almost hissed, interrupting, "You're Jones,"

Alfred gave him a raised brow, "Yeah. Alfred F. Jones, hahaha…call me Alfred."

Clint glanced towards the door but no one entered to investigate.

"…And you are?"

This escape mission had suddenly gotten a lot more direr than he was comfortable with. Also…what the hell… his own bloody country didn't remember who he was.

Alfred squinted, giving an almost embarrassed shrug, "Because, like, I've totally forgotten…no offence."

He let out an exasperated breath, "Don't worry about it,"

Now was not the time for chatter. He moved forward, making quick work of the ropes. Despite initial misunderstandings Alfred caught on quick, working himself free as he loosened the ties.

"Don't you have super strength or something," he asked bluntly. Shouldn't Alfred be able to escape these on his own?

"Well yeah," Alfred snorted, "but being out of country really messes with me. Especially, in situations like this."

"That's inconvenient," he commented dryly. Okay, so escaping might be a bit tricky…trickier.

"Tell me about it. I was trapped in this basement for a week once…wait…never mind…that was my basement."

Finally, he was dragging Alfred out the door and not a moment too soon for…

His radio crackled, "What is taking so long. If you haven't found it in five I'm locking you in."

He held up a hand to silence Alfred's basement story.

"I got it. Everything's still secure" he spoke into the radio, "Lock it up."

"…Locking doors," the large door rattled, closing with a slam. Locks clicked.

He breathed a sigh. So far everything was going better than expected.

Expert for the whole 'personification' thing. He glanced over at Alfred and was met with searching eyes. A brief uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed. OK. Creepy.

"Oh Oh!" The field of discomfort popped like an overinflated balloon, "You're the arrow guy!"

He blinked. Arrow guy!?

"It's Hawkeye," he informed, slightly miffed, crossing his arms. Just because he didn't run around dressed as a flag or sporting red and gold trimming.

"Totally cool. Soz bro, out of country," he tapped his skull, "totally screws my head."

"Hawks are awesome by the way, not a cool as Eagles, but definitely in the top ten best birds."

Clint rubbed his eyes, glancing down at the two more unconscious men. They would have to find somewhere to stash them.

Wait.

"Out of country," he focused in on the useful information. Alfred had mentioned it earlier as well.

"You know where we are?"

"Well yeah," Silence.

Clint huffed, "So," he propped, motioning with his hands.

Alfred rolled his eyes like he was the one with the issue.

"We're in England."

So, he mentally did some calculation, he had been asleep for probably around seven hours give or take.

England huh. His situation may not be as bad as he initially thought. So all he needed to do was escape a probably well-defended building, find their way to civilization and raise an alert. Piece of cake. And now he had the Physical embodiment of America…that had to count for something.

He eyed Alfred. It was one thing hearing about all the amazing things Personification could do and it was another thing having to assess whether or not Alfred would be more of an asset or a hindrance. Currently, all he saw was a vanilla civilian.

"OK, here's the plan: We stay under the radar as long as possible, sneak out of here and hopefully not fight an army," he said, mentally sorting through probable scenarios.

"We should use the tour bus."

Clint stalled, "Tour bus?"

"Yeah, was taking a totally amazballs tour but them bastards interrupted."

A vehicle would be needed at some point and he had no clue where or if they had other vehicle on the base.

"It's still here?"

That would definitely be useful when trying to get too safety.

"Yeah, should be, they hijacked the whole thing,"

"I don't know where they took the other people though," Alfred frowned, looking more serious, "They aren't in this building."

Hmm.

"It'll probably be a level up on the east side," Alfred offered, snapping out of his distraction.

"You're sure?" he questioned.

A few seconds more of looking distracted…

"I'm sure," the other answered with new certainty.

Well, it was better than nothing.

Alfred, folding his hands behind his head, glanced around curiously, "Soooo. Escape time?"

He sounded awfully excited for someone in their situation.

"Help be get these guys into that room," he gestured to a door further down the corridor. The instruction was met with a grin and a nod as Alfred pulled one of the men over in a move that was surprisingly gentle. It appeared that, even without super strength, Alfred had above average.

"Here," he held out a handgun taken from one of the unconscious men at his feet.

Alfred looked it over, "This is German design," he stated, looking offended.

Clint shoved it into Alfred's hand, ignoring the protest. There was no way he was leaving the living embodiment of his country unarmed.

Alfred accepted the weapon with all the grace of a child being deprived of his favorite toy.

"OK, lets move,"

Alfred, snapping out of his sulk, nodded seriously then ruined the seriousness by giving him a goofy double thumbs up.

Silently, they crept up the stairs, hugging the wall. Surprisingly, Alfred fell easily into silence, eyes narrowed, keeping an eye on the area at their backs. The faint sound of footsteps caused him to pause. He held up his hand in the standard hold position. They both paused.

The hall beyond was empty. They continued onward.

"Hey," Alfred whispered from behind, breaking the tension.

"What," he glanced back. Was something wrong?

"Just wanted you to know that you're, like, my second favorite Avenger,"

Alfred grinned cheerfully.

"Thanks," he muttered after a small pause, turning back to the matter at hand.

No prizes for guessing who Alfred's first favorite Avenger was. Though, second best was better than nothing. He was so rubbing this in Tony's face later. And why was he suddenly so happy. Even the nausea had lessened. In fact, he was feeling a hell of a lot better than he had a few seconds ago. He glanced at Alfred again. There had been some notes on how Personifications possessed limited suggestive powers.

He supposed all that irritation Fury directed towards Alfred-and personifications in general-had some merit. He was having a hard time imaging Alfred being anything other than a goofball civilian in a dangerous situation. Yet, supposedly, he was 'highly skilled' and 'relatively intelligent,' Fury's words, not his.

His contemplation was interrupted by a guard, and what looked like a scientist, stepping quite suddenly out from one the corridor's side rooms.

He crouched, tensing, moving into an offensive pose. But even as his thigh muscles tightened in preparation Alfred was moving ahead.

The man and the scientist wet down…not dead…just out cold. Heck, he had barely see Alfred move the strikes had been so neat and focused.

He straightened, quirking a brow.

Alfred shrugged, "I may not be at my strongest or fastest but 200 years, man, you learn a few things."

'Highly skilled' huh. Ok, so Alfred knew what he was doing. He could work with this.


	6. A for Effort (part 2)

**A for Effort (part 2)**

 **Summary:** Things go pear shaped

 **Note:** Once again I needed to split the chapter in half-this is turning into a monster-so there will be a part 3 at some point.

. . . .

Apart from that one interruption the corridors remained silent, echoy and suspiciously devoid of people. Alfred, now in front, led then confidently through the underground maze. Clint pushed aside his unease, focusing on covering their retreat. He hoped Alfred knew where they were going as, so far, he had yet to see any possible exits.

They came to another intersection. Clint scanned the space, moving his weapon up into a ready position. Office doors, concrete, hash fluorescent lighting. In other words, it looked exactly the same as the last couple passageways.

Alfred glanced down the two corridors.

"This way," he said after a few seconds of intense squinting.

Clint relaxed his grip, following.

Their 'good' luck did not hold out much longer than that.

An alarm sounded. It pierced the air with a high-pitched shriek. That didn't bode well.

"Oh crap," Alfred voiced his sentiments, "That was fast,"

There went the element of surprise.

"Come on," he grumbled, pushing against Alfred's back to move him forward.

"How far till we reach an exit?" or wherever Alfred was leading them.

"Should be close… We are about three levels down from the surface…there aint a lot of ways up." Alfred answered.

"Figured," he muttered, what with the lack of windows and all. He decided not to question how Alfred knew this info. The lack of exits was probably a security feature. He had concluded that this was some sort of warehouse, turned office building, turned evil lair. This was obviously a large operation.

"You would think people with the power to kidnap a country and a high-ranking SHIELD agent would be better known. Pretty ballsy," he muttered. How hadn't he, or SHIELD, been made aware of these guys?

He did not like it.

Alfred glanced back, eyebrows raised.

"What?" He questioned when the staring lasted a bit too long.

"Hmm, oh nothing, just through you were here to, like, rescue me or something,"

Clint blinked, "No. They got me while I was on a surveillance mission."

Odd that Alfred would assume otherwise…unless he expected SHIELD to send someone in for him, meaning that SHIELD did know about these guys.

"Oh," Alfred frowned then smiled, "That does explain the get up," Alfred gestured to his hodge-podge stolen outfit. Rude.

"And the lack of exit strategy," Alfred added, "And some other erm…stuff,"

For a guy as old as Alfred he sure did a shit job of hiding his thoughts. There was definitely a pre-existing connection between Alfred and these guys.

"You know these people," he questioned.

Alfred hesitated, "Ah, not really. More like, a hunch, you know how it is."

Like instinct? Or was this one of those, 'limited precognitive,' abilities in action.

Before he could ask any more questions a fault in his step caused him to pause. He stumbled. Clint slowed to take stock of himself. Sure he was nauseous but so far his coordination had been fine. He looked around, eyeing his surroundings.

Alfred, who had gone on ahead of him, pocked his head back around the corner,

"What's up?"

Gas. It was faint. But, he took a step, and wobbled slightly. Definitely gas. Fuck.

"Hey are you ok," Alfred was suddenly beside him, concern flickering across his features. He stumbled back in surprise, having not seen the other move.

Whatever it was, it was fast acting,

"It's Gas,"

He tried taking a step but lurched sideward, prompting Alfred to pull him upright.

"Serious?" Alfred steadied him.

"Totally," he answered, a sudden grogginess descending upon him. It was a clever way to trap and detain intruders. Flood the tunnels with gas and have limited exit and entry points. With the remaining tranquilizers still in his system he would be especially valuable.

"Hey, hang in there Hawk Guy," Alfred gripped his torso, pulling his arm around his shoulder, "We're almost there."

"It's Hawk Eye," he grouched. The world lunched.

Alfred, gripping him tight, pulled him down the hall with gusto.

Luckily, whatever it was, did not appeared to be affecting Alfred. Clint focused on maintaining consciousness. Not that he did not trust Alfred to get them both out of there. He just knew from first hand experience that lugging an unconscious body around was tricky and dangerous for both parties. Short breaths. Slow breathing to minimize intake.

He and Alfred turned into yet another corridor housing what looked like a service elevator. Alfred examined the doors appearing about ready to rip them open with his bare hands. For all Clint knew he could. However…Clint pulled out the access card he had nicked off one of the earlier guards, leaning over and swiping it across an access panel.

There was a rumble as the mechanisms within came to life.

Alfred jammed a finger into the 'up' button, then pressed it again, then again.

"Think that's enough," Clint interrupted, groggily waving Alfred away.

Alfred grinned, "It's faster,"

"It's not,"

He was subjected to a huff, "Spoil sport,"

The doors rattled open.

Alfred dragged him through, lowing him to the ground. Clint slid down, leaning heavily against the wall.

The doors slid shut and he allowed himself to breath normally. After a few moments the lift rumbled upward and the black spots marring Clint's vision began to dissipate.

Alfred crouched before him, hand putting pressure against his forehead, "You okay?"

He frowned. His body was heavy. He would be able to move but that was about it.

"I'm okay enough,"

He pushed Alfred's hand away.

Though, in this state, he wouldn't be much good in a fight. He attempted to stand. There was a high chance people would be waiting for them to exit the elevator when it arrived at the ground floor. It was logical, seeing as it was one of the only ways to escape the building. He should at least be prepared to move.

Alfred grinned, grabbing his arm and helping him up. He lent against one of the walls, trying to shake the dizzying effects of the gas and the lingering nausea of the tranquilizer.

"Thanks," he smiled back.

It would be a tough confrontation, as the lift did not provide much cover. Probably would end in a stale mate if they didn't manage to catch them by surprise.

Alfred, who had straightened, was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, humming.

"Star-Spangled Banner?" he enquired, feeling oddly calm despite only operating at 50% capacity and about to engage in an unfavorable confrontation.

"Hey, don't knock the classics,"

The elevated grumbled to a stop and Clint pressed himself to the side so as not to get shot. When the doors opened it would appear as if the lift was empty hopefully drawing in any sentries, making them easier to take down.

"What the hell are you doing," he hissed when Alfred failed to follow his example.

But it was too late because the doors were sliding open.

Alfred gave him a wink, strolling through them like he owned the place.

Four men, all armed, stood before the lift's doors, obviously keeping an eye out for intruders.

Alfred stepped out, "Haha…What's up guys."

Clint slowly peered around the side of the elevator door, gun ready.

All four men, who had been in the process to raising their weapons, paused looking at Alfred in confusion.

"What were you doing on the lower levels," one of the men began, "The area is on lock down,"

Alfred rubbed the back of his head nervously, "Yeah, heard the alarms, and was like, crap, better get back to my post."

The men obviously did not recognize Alfred.

"I'm going to need to see your ID. One of the men will escort you to your designated station."

Clint shook his head in disbelief.

"Hey no problems," Alfred responded approaching the men. They took the ID card Alfred offered and did not seem to notice that the picture looked nothing like him.

A perception filter. That had to be it. Sure, he had heard a lot about it-mostly that it was annoying- but he never thought it would be this effective.

While they were distracted Clint carefully shifted his position, insuring he made no sudden movement for risk of drawing attention to himself. He managed to position himself behind several pallets of crates adjacent to the left. Once there he released the breath he had been holding, leaning back to rest his head a little.

Alfred chattered amiably with the four men, giving him a chance to examine his surroundings. The room was large, extending upwards about two levels. A few meters up walkways followed the walls. Along these walkways were a few guards all of who were mostly distracted by the conversation happening near the lift. Clint shifted so he was out of their line of sight. The stacks of boxes and crates meant this was probably a loading bay so there should be a set of doors to the outside somewhere close. From his position he could not see them but they were probably down the far end. Along the left side were a series of doors, probably leading into another part of the building and, there, at the bays far right was a large double decker tour bus.

He looked back to Alfred who was laughing at something and patting one of the guys on the shoulder.

Was Alfred going to make a move or what? Clint pulled himself into a crouch, giving the two men patrolling up overhead another look. He could probably take them out but he would have to wait for Alfred to move first.

As Alfred traveled further down the group seemed to shift with him and it became apparent that he was edging everyone closer to the bus. He was also keeping attention off Clint who flittered into the shadow of another crate. It wasn't a bad plan.

"What are you idiots doing away from your posts!"

A small pause followed the angry yell.

A man in a black suit stood at one of the exits. The four guards next to Alfred startled as if just noticing how far they had shifted from position.

Crap. There went that plan. And everything had been going so well.

The suited man's eyes fell on Alfred and widened, "You idiots that's…"

Alfred whipped out a leg and the nearest man hit the ground with a smack. The second one followed suit as Alfred launched himself into a spinning kick.

A high pinched alarm permeated the space.

Clint wasted no time, opening fire on his closest target, one of the patrolling men. The guy went down and he switched his sights, unloading a round of shots as his second target ducked behind a guardrail.

He glanced back at Alfred who, having taken down the four surrounding him, was running towards the suited man.

About a dozen armored soldiers bust into the room from one of the far-left doors. Alfred skidded to a halt and dove for shelter, avoiding a hail of bullets.

Double crap.

He switched targets, giving Alfred some cover fire. There were several surprised shouts as men were forced to scatter and take refuge behind several boxes.

Clint ducked, shielding his eyes when a bullet ricocheted, flinging splinters into the air. The man on the platform was back up. He peeked up as quickly as possible, getting his position before firing blindly around the corner of the crate.

The sound of a thud as something fell from a height. He discarded the now empty semi-automatic, switching it for the one still containing bullets, and turned back to provide Alfred with cover.

He was forced to retreat backward when four of the men switched from targeting Alfred to himself. He was now officially pinned down. Pinned down and with a limited supply of bullets.

The was a thump and a shout. He glanced out just long enough to see Alfred throw his gun like a ninja star, hitting a guy directly in the forehead. The oddness of the action allowed him to finally land a shot and one of the men targeting him went down. He could only assume Alfred had run out of bullets.

Damn, he should have forced Alfred to take another weapon.

Alfred darted away, bullets nipping at his heels, ducking between stacks of crates, drawing most of the fire.

No time for regrets, Clint gathered himself to brake cover as bits of the concrete exploded behind him. He threw himself forward, rolling to the side, dropping his second semi-automatic, it also having run out of bullets.

The bus was barely five meters away now. If he could get to it and get it started, he could drive through the rest of the assailants, grab Alfred and get the fuck out of there. A few seconds to gather himself was all he needed.

The was a loud rumble, and Clint's head snapped backwards. The elevator door opened and several men rushed out of it. With smooth efficiency the group took up firing positions.

He was forced to switch his attention from providing Alfred with cover to dealing with this new threat.

Crap. Crap. Crap. He should have disabled the lift. Stupid. Rookie mistake.

These guys were better trained, he noted, watching them flit between the pallets of crates. If he were in top form he would have had a better chance but currently he was moving too slow. At this rate, he would be dead long before he made it to the bus.

Slowly, inch by inch they moved closer and closer to his position. Bang thud. One down. A yell. Two Down. Three.

Something clattered on the ground before him.

His eyes widened. Shit. He dove to the side, wincing as a bullet clipped his shoulder. There was a shape pain as something hit his bullet vest.

The area behind him exploded in a fiery ball of flame. The shockwave threw him forward and he curled to his left to minimize the impact. His head rang and his vision blurred.

The sound of boots.

He stumbled up just in time to dodge a kick to the head. Clint drunkenly ducked another and rammed a knee into the man's exposed stomach. As someone approached from his side he twist, pulling, causing the two men to ram each other. A strike from behind forced him to abandon a follow up move in favor of keeping his balance.

He attempted to straighten but his whole body was protesting the movement.

"I would stop fighting if I were you," it was the cool voice from earlier. The one that had given him the creeps. There was the familiar press of a gun at the back of his head.

Clink froze. Two others rushed forward and he was slammed to the ground. His arm was ruthlessly twisted and he was forced to relinquish his handgun. He twisted his head around, attempting to see the man's face.

He caught a glimpse of dark eyes before a blow to the back of his head forced him forward. Another kneed him hard in the stomach. A hit to the ribcage.

"Enough," snapped the cold voice, "secure him."

Clint stuck out a leg, causing the man who had kneed him to stumble sideways and into a wooden beam.

He received another clock over the head for his efforts. If he hadn't been at his best before he was definitely in the shits now.

With his arms tightly secured behind his back and he was dragged forward.

The main floor of the warehouse, which had been mostly clear of pallets, now contained several unconscious bodies- not dead he noted- and alot of wood shards and splinters.

"Hold you fire," The cold man snapped irritably at the dozen or so people firing almost blindly at the group of crates he assumed Alfred was hiding behind.

"General," one of the men turned. Clint recognized him as the suited man who had blown Alfred's cover.

"I had the situation under control," he snapped, gesturing the men beside him who stopped firing.

"Don't make me laugh," the cool voice from behind him retorted, "Now move aside,"

A few seconds of tension in which both groups shifted, hands twitching towards weapons. Unfortunately, it did not devolve into violence.

What did happen was the suited man stood to one side, glowering, and he was shoved forward.

"Alfred Jones I suggest to step out with your hands raised, otherwise your precious Hawk gets his wings clipped,"

"Wings clipped?" Clint snarked, "Haven't heard that one befo…" The back of his head exploded in pain, he stumbled forward, falling to his knees. Ugh, the nausea was back.

"Hey!"

Alfred shouted, stepping out into the open. He took a small bit of pleasure in the fact that Alfred was several meters away from where everyone had been focusing.

"Not cool man," he snapped, eyes narrowed.

There was the sound of various clicking as all the weapons in the room were aimed at Alfred.

"Hands up," snarled the suited man.

Alfred's eyes flickered to meet Clint's then darted around the group holding him. Clint could see the cogs turning. Alfred had taken down four trained men in the blink of an eye. He was good. But, honesty, unless Alfred had some ace up his sleeve, he could not see them getting out of this situation any time soon.

Alfred shifted.

Clint suddenly found himself pressed hard against the concrete. Gun against his head.

"Just your hands,"

"Whoa there," Alfred put his hands in the air, "let's all take our chill pill prescriptions. Yeah?"

"You will surrender yourself or…"

"I think we could all benefit from a cool beer and a chat," Alfred interrupted, continuing his train of thought, "No need to get violent."

He gave their congregation an award-winning smile. With his face against the ground it was hard to get a proper look but Clint swore he saw the people around him relaxing.

"If you think that…" the suit guy began to argue.

"Enough nonsense," the cold voice interrupted, "Do not think you can distract us with your kind's tricks,"

"You will surrender and allow yourself to be contained or he dies."

There was a stretch of silence in which Alfred's smile transformed from warm and inviting to something more brittle. Come on Alfred. Either enact whatever plan or get out of here. Don't stand there and let more backup arrive.

Whatever may have happened next was interrupted by a series of sharp explosions, which shook the floor. Dust partials fell from the ceiling. Attention was directed towards the far wall. Another explosion. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

"Get Jones out of…"

One of the doors caved inward. A defining bang. Brick, concrete and wood went flying. The explosion rocked the building. Clint went tumbling and most of the assailants were flung backwards. He took the opportunity to roll, squirming so he could loop his hands under his legs. As he moved he squinted through the wave of dust and dirt the explosion had thrown up.

Alfred, standing in the same spot, had his arms tucked causally behind his head, seemingly unaffected by the sudden chaos.

Clint spied a discarded gun, he began edging towards it.

Across the warehouse, strolling through the newly made hole, came a man dressed in a bespoke olive-green suit. He flicked dust from his shoulders, glancing around.

"Oh thank bloody god," the stiff man exclaimed, spying Alfred.

"Hey Iggy." Alfred gave a small wave.


	7. A for Effort (part 3)

**A for Effort (part 3)**

 **Summary** : Things go pear shaped continued

 **. . . . . . . . .**

Bits of rubble rained down around them, forcing Clint to role to avoid a shredded wooden beam. He glanced back towards the gun, keeping an eye on Alfred as he confronted the new arrival.

A walking stick was leveled in Alfred's direction.

"What did you do?" their, possible, ally accused in a heavy English accent.

"Whoa," Alfred put a hand on his chest, "hold the phone. This isn't MY fault!"

A gun fired across the room. The English man darted to the side in a move far too quick to be human. Alfred also took cover as more of their assailants gained their wits.

"I suppose Bosnia was also 'not your fault' along with that alien fiasco in New York!" was yelled. The area around them devolved into complete and utter chaos with scattered assailants firing blindly into the clouds of dust and smoke. Clint scooped up the gun and stumbled behind a pile of debris. Four bullets. Great.

"Hey! You can't pin New York on me!"

Alfred and their new ally continued shouting despite the danger.

"Oh Yes! Aliens just decide to invade right out of the blue for no reason whatsoever! Please. You must think I was born yesterday,"

The rest of the argument was drowned out by a series of small explosions. Clint grimaced, glancing around for something to break the chains on his cuffs. One of his legs was now sporting a large gash and he paused in his search to rip up a makeshift bandage to stem the flow of blood. Hopefully, Alfred and the English man would continue distracting everyone and give him some time to recover. He tied off the bandage and went back to breaking his cuff's chain links on a slab of concreate. Around him the warehouse literally deteriorated into a hurricane of shrapnel and explosions. What he wouldn't give for a clear head and a proper weapon.

"Don't move," the click of a gun.

Clint cursed his inattention, pausing in his efforts and glancing up.

It was suit guy, he had recovered a weapon which was now pointed at his head. He scanned his surroundings but neither Alfred or the English guy were in sight. All that shit and he was going to be shot anyway. He released a sigh, gathering his legs under him in preparation for a last-minute lunge. If he timed it right, he might still have a chance.

"I told them you would be trouble," suit man, who's suit now looked less like a suit and more like a pile of rags which had gone through a shredder, began, "Messing with SHEILD. I told them it was a bad idea. Super human bullshit."

Great. A monologue. He loved these. Clint, still crouching, slowly began to lift his weapon.

"Don't even try it," snapped the other.

Clint froze. Okay. SO that wouldn't work. He put down the gun, "Hey, um, OK, see I've dropped the weapon."

The suit man scowled, snorting, "Yeah, I see that."

Something exploded nearby and the other man winced. He seemed to be deciding whether to shoot Clint now or use him as a hostage. With all the chaos raining down no one had noticed their standoff.

"Why did you even want Jones. He can't have been the easiest man to kidnap," Clint tried. Hey. Any information was good information.

"Fuck if I know," the man snapped irritably, "We were only supposed to hold him for transport. Only idiots tangle with the big leagues. But hey, not like we had much of a choice,"

Now he had a chance Clint could make out dark circles under the other man's eyes, hinting at either stress or a lack of sleep. The way he was leaning to the side also suggested an injury. Maybe broken or cracked ribs.

"Who were you holding him for?" Clint asked slowly. He didn't want to set the obviously unstable man off.

The other sniggered, "You don't know? And here I thought you were high up the ladder. Guess they don't tell you shit either."

The man cocked his weapon and Clint tensed. Not good.

"You idiot's think you have everything figured out. I have news for you, pal. SHIELD an't the bastion of perfection everyone thinks it is. Too bad you're not going to live long enough to see it for what it is,"

The gun fired. Several things happened in quick succession.

Clint lunged. The man stumbled back expression shifting from angry to shocked.

The back of Clint's shirt was jerked, tightening around his neck, briefly cutting off his air. He was pulled into the air and yanked out of the bullet's path. A sudden blurr of movement. The sensation of flying.

And he slammed into Alfred with enough force to send them both flying backwards.

"Ugh," Alfred grunted. They both went crashing into the side of a crate. Splinters and bits of wood went flying.

Ouch.

"Hawkguy?" Alfred questioned. Clint groaned in response. Vision blurry. What the hell.

"A little warning would be nice," Alfred complained over his head at someone out of sight. Whoever had so kindly thrown him.

"A little warning….A LITTLE WARNING," Familiar accented yelling. Clint twist, squinting over his shoulder. The English man was standing across the warehouse next to suit guy who he causally wacked in the neck, causing the other to crumple to the ground. He turned in their direction, pointing a finger at Alfred, "do you know what a complete nightmare it was to track this place down?"

"Getting slow in your old age?" Alfred challenged. English man scowled in response before effortlessly sidestepping several gun shots. A second later and he had darted off. A blur of olive green across the now thoroughly destroyed warehouse. Definitely a meta human. And, judging by his familiarity with Alfred, his overwhelming Englishness and SHIELD classified information, he could hazard a guess to who it was. He was surprised it had taken him this long to put it all together.

"That's Arthur Kirkland," he commented, making it more of a statement than a question. By that point his head had cleared enough to realize that he was lying across Alfred. At this point he had run out of shits to give.

"Yeah, that's Iggy," Alfred pulled them both upright, untangling them from various boxes.

"YES, LET US JUST THROW A FEW NATIONAL SECRETS ON THE TABLE AS WELL. WHY NOT?" shouted the now confirmed Kirkland.

"HE WOULD'VE FIGURED IT OUT ANYWAY!" Alfred jumped to his feet and yelled back. Just as quickly he ducked back down when his shouting attracted unwanted attention.

Clint winced, knocked to the side by the sudden movement.

"He's in a bad mood. Usually, he's nicer," Alfred reassured.

For some reason, Clint doubted it.

"Hey, are you okay?" Alfred appeared to have just noticed his less that stela condition. Despite spending the last half hour getting shot at Alfred didn't seem anymore ruffled then when he had first seen him. Aside from a few tears in his clothing and a lot of dust Alfred seemed fine. Meanwhile, Clint felt like he had gone through a blender. Probably looked it too. Meta human bullshit indeed.

Clint tilted his still cuffed hands in a so-and-so motion, "I can still shoot,"

And move…maybe. There were only so many times a man could get thrown across a room.

Alfred scrunched up his nose, appearing doubtful.

"Oh," Alfred noticed his cuffs, "here, let me get that," Alfred lent forward, gripped the cuff's chain and ripped it apart with his bare hands.

Clint grimaced, examining the links now hanging like bangles from his wrists, "Thought you didn't have supper strength," he questioned. Would have been useful earlier.

Alfred shrugged, "Well, it's not my full strength. But Iggy's here, so that helps."

"Right," he agreed. Don't question it. Seamed to be quote of the day. He was the subject of another concerned glance.

"Wait here," Alfred nodded, dashing away, leaving Clint to examine his new position. It was closer to the side of the warehouse. Which was good because, despite calming down somewhat, the middle floor space was still a shit show. He was also closer to the hole Kirkland had busted through. Hopefully, no more enemy backup would arrive. The bus he had initially been aiming for was also further away. But, with Alfred and Kirkland tearing through opponents like crate-paper, the chances of him making it there had dramatically improved.

Alfred returned to deposit a new weapon in his lap along with several refills.

"Thanks," he nodded, pulling himself around so he was in a better position. Alfred hovered, buzzing with concerned excitement. The normality and humaneness which had caused Clint to initially dismiss the man was all but gone now. The air around him was alive with impatient static.

Alfred hesitated, "Are you sure you're okay."

Wow. He must really look like crap.

"I'm fine," and when this failed to inspire movement, "Go help that English bastard. Kick ass,"

Alfred beamed, giving him an almost carful pat, "You got it,"

Alfred charged off, barreling through the remaining assailants, drawing the attention of whoever was still fighting. If Alfred was anything, it was flashy. Together, Alfred and Kirkland, zipped between their disoriented captures. His shoulder prickled around the area Alfred had touched. A new warmth crept through his limbs, chasing away his fatigue. It reminded him of drinking hot mead on a cold winter night. Clint checked himself over again, adjusting the bandage on his leg. Just because he felt a shit ton better didn't mean he was.

The dust had now cleared enough to give him a proper view of the warehouse. Carefully, he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on a destroyed crate, which was spilling large metal slabs. With Alfred and Kirkland still yelling insults at each other, Clint was free to circumnavigated mounds of rubble.

Some of the assailants had regrouped near the hole in the wall. Clint kept an eye on them as he moved towards the bus. He recognized them as the men who had come with cold voice guy, judging by their better equipment. Soon the group was carefully approaching Kirkland who had paused briefly in his movement. Right. These guys were better trained then the others. In response, Clint stopped, leaning on a mound and taking aim. Maybe Kirkland had seen them. Maybe he hadn't. Better to be prepared. Despite the unfamiliar weapon he managed to dispatch two of the group, causing the rest to scatter and duck behind upturned boxes. Alfred moved into view, quickly traversing the blocky terrain and dispatching the remaining two with two easy punches. Super strength. Must be nice.

Clint paused and ducked down, taking a few seconds to regain his strength. Despite Alfred's odd strength boost Clint was definitely feeling the strain of the last few hours. He ducked off now moving at a more sedate pace, rerouting to the avoid the occasional disoriented straggler. Finally, and with no lack of effort, he made it to his destination.

The bus was bulky and the top level had been stripped away to allow tourists a better view of whatever they were touring. The doors were thankfully unlocked and Clint, glancing about him, slipped inside, clambering up the steps. He wasted no time in pulling apart the wiring in the dashboard, jamming himself down to avoid being a target.

The sound of a revving engine. Finally. He pulled himself up into the driver's seat, checking over the gearshifts. Seamed to be your standard heavy vehicle's manual configuration. He retched at the gearstick, yanking at the large steering wheel. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and the bus lurched forward. Tiers screeched against the warehouse's smooth concrete floor. Boxes and miscellaneous items crunched as he maneuvered through the midfield of containers and crates.

To his left he spotted the forms of Alfred and Kirkland both crouched behind a heap of torn up ration boxes. Clint hit the brakes, putting the bus in reverse, twisting in his seat and backing towards his targets. The large bus steamrolled through the piles of junk, scattering their remaining attackers.

He flipped a switch and the doors clattered open.

Alfred and Kirkland, surrounded by unconscious bodies-not dead bodies-, appeared to be bickering. His arrival did little to disturbed them. On the other side of the bus several downed men regained their wits, having leapt widely to avoid being run over.

"…had to leave Europe early," Kirkland complained, "You owe me."

"Hey. Who just unearthed a terrorist cell for you? You're welcome,"

They seemed almost unconcerned about the carnage around them. Clint cleared his throat. He was ignored.

"Do not be ridiculous, getting captured is hardly a viable strategy for solving anything."

"Worked didn't it,"

Kirkland rolled his eyes, "Your 'plan' only worked because I put in the actual effort."

Gun fire shattered the window to his right.

"Maybe if you had better security…"

"Okay, that's enough," he interrupted impatiently, "let's get out of here before more back up arrives," time to move the circus some place more secure.

Alfred glanced at him opening his mouth.

"Yes, right," England causally brushed Alfred away, "Let us get to safety."

Alfred scowled as they both clambered onto the bus. Correction, Alfred and Kirkland easily leapt up the steps. Clint rolled his eyes and slammed a foot on the accelerator and took a small amount of pleasure in seeing Alfred and Kirkland stumble slightly at the sudden movement.

The bus doors swung shut. Gun fire followed their retreat. He spun the bus to face the large roller doors.

"Brace yourselves," Clint warned

The doors to the warehouse raced to meet them. Everyone latched onto the fixtures around them. Clint braced for impact. The entire bus shuddered, jolting. The sound of screeching metal. Sparks of light sprayed down around them. Everything shook, trembling. The warehouse doors caved, flung away from the high seed object. Bright sunlight momentarily blinded him as the bus exploded out of the building. It rocketed down the narrow driveway and then into a set of street lanes. Bulky stone buildings boxed them in and they sped towards an intersection. Luckily, there seemed to be little in the way of traffic, the area consisting of disused warehouses. He scanned the location, taking in the many broken and bordered-up windows while they sped past.

"Turn left," Kirkland barked and he retched the wheel to the side on instinct. The bus rocked as its right set of wheels came loose from the pavement. He was subsequently slammed into the seat side window. He was going to have so many bruises when this was over.

"If we continue forward we will hit a main road!" Kirkland was again shouting, standing over him as he struggled to keep the bus from tipping.

"Turn right,"

"RIGHT!" Kirkland repeated when the they missed the turn and ran up onto the pavement.

"This is a lot harder than it looks," He snapped with the patience of someone who had dealt with unexpected bullshit all day.

The bus jerked as it mowed down a lamp post.

"For god's sake," Kirkland complained. Alfred snorted in amusement from where he was clinging a seat further down the aisle. At least someone was finding the situation humorous.

Another lamp post and a one poor trash can later and…

"Out, out. Let me drive," Kirkland, tired of playing navigator, ordered. He glanced briefly at the English personification.

"I know these streets like the back of my hand," the other added impatiently. Well, if anyone had a chance of navigating these tiny roads in the hulking bus it would be the personification of the country.

There was some odd contorting as they switched places. The bus swerved unpredictability and he was saved from getting slammed into the wall by Alfred who had reached out to steady him. Once situated in the driver's seat Kirkland wasted no time in coxing the already speeding vehicle into accelerating faster.

Clint squinted back at the carnage leaving an easily to follow trail. So far there were no pursuers. That would probably change soon as tour buses weren't the fastest or most maneuverable vehicles. Four black SUV's swung around the corner.

He hated being right.

"We have pursuers," he announced, watching the cars jostle for position on the narrowing street. These people were persistent.

Everything tipped again when Kirkland turned into a tight side lane. Clint, unable to brace in time, was flung across the aisle and into Alfred. They both went tumbling, hitting the opposite wall. A horrid screeching as the metal caught on the narrow stone walls. At least now the SUV's could only follow one at a time. He narrowed his eyes noticing that there were only two cars in pursuit instead of four. The two must be circling the block. He shared a concerned glace with Alfred.

"Alfred," Kirkland tossed something metallic over his shoulder at Alfred. The other snatched the object form the air.

"Hey! My gun," Alfred's face lit up before frowning.

"You had this the whole time," he accused.

Kirkland glowered out the corner of his eye, turning his attention back to the road. Gun fired sounded from behind and the back window shattered. Clint, ignoring the drama, attempted to gauge the distance between them and their pursuers. If he could get to the bus's top deck he may have a chance in taking them out. Automatics weren't the most precise of guns but he hadn't become a top marksman through mastery of the bow and arrow alone.

"Iggy! You take care of driving" Alfred ordered, breaking off whatever staring contest he and Kirkland were having. Kirkland spluttered in response.

"Come on Hawkguy," Alfred grabbed his arm, pulling Clint upright, "Let's take care of these wanabees,"

Alfred practically picked him up as he yanked them both up the stairs onto the open deck. The sudden exposure to the rushing wind almost had him tumbling off the back. He ducked down. Hopefully, no one had noticed their arrival.

"You think you can take out those wheels," Alfred was crouched beside him. Clint pulled around his weapon from where he had had it slung across his back, releasing the safety. What sort of question was that?

"In my sleep," he answered, shuffling across the deck, getting into position. The narrowness of the ally almost made the task too easy.

 **. . . . . . . . .**

AN: Originally, I planned to have this chapter out about two weeks after the last one. Obviously, that didn't happen. Due to study and work, recreational writing has taken a backseat on my priority list. There is a final chapter in the works but I can't guarantee a post date. Thank you to the people who reviewed it does help to know that people read and enjoy my writing.


End file.
